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Three Devils could pass as a joint in Meteo... granted, not quite at that Sector Nine level. No neon signs here: ground level of the city (where all the rabble lived), down a back alley in a back alley, down ironclad cellar doors sealed with a punchcode... An oversized, scarred brute of an elephant stood outside the bar's underground entrance, ready to squash cop heads like a watermelon between those massive arms. Shirtless. His fat gut was a mess of scars, like a walking billboard advertising just how much punishment this son-of-a-bitch could take. Wolf met the fucker's eye, then winced as his right ear popped for the fifteenth goddamn time since landing planetside.

A reasonable man might be fearful of just strolling in like this. Had it been a setup, Wolf O'Donnell would end up in jail; thugs would collect his bounty and blow it on coke and hookers and who knew what else. But for Wolf, danger was an evil so familiar he almost found it comforting, like an old, childhood friend you know will always be there for you.

Inside, a striped hyena greeted him with two glasses of whiskey, one pushed Wolf's way. Stripes thought he was special and clever, but he had the same problem everyone else did. Taxes were too damn high. His joint was in the gutter, and raising prices was suicide. It was a familiar song and dance, one Wolf had played out countless times before. He knew every move on the board, and Stripes didn't even know where his queen was.

Wolf didn't have to explain that the reason Stripes couldn't compete was because the bar down the road already got its booze from the Cornerian branch of the Sargasso Group. They both knew it. Wolf had carved out a need for himself in this space; if you don't do business with Wolf, you don't do business at all. Wolf played the long game. Stripes knew he was being played, but he had no choice but to play right along, too.

A half-hour later, the deal was done. Wolf stopped as he left, eyes cocked towards the elephant. What's your name?

The behemoth of a man had a jagged pink scar over his left eye, which watched Wolf fearlessly. Gorath, the brute said.

You're overkill for this joint. Wolf came in close, fingered a few buttons on his comm, then passed his up against the elephant's to transmit his contact code. Drop a line my way and I'll double your salary if my boys like you. Got it?

Wolf could forgive the corpulence: elephants wore that weight well, and it made him an immovable tank. That eye watched him stoically, then its owner grunted in answer... and Wolf was on his way.

Stripes was one of many. There were always more.

One-by-one, he crossed them off. Stripes. Spots. No-stripes-no-spots, and Ringtail McFuckFace. Wolf was like a well-oiled machine, with a to-do list as an input and Wolf O'Donnell the Iron Fist of Meteo as the output. In, out, In, out.

---

Corneria City Skyway: an interweaving nest of pedestrian bridges arcing between a canopy of skyscrapers. Wolf only ever saw it at night, and only with an oversized coat clenched around his figure with the hood pulled up. Tonight, the air was chilly. Restaurants had closed. Coffee shops had converted to bars. Now and then, flavor-of-the-month music thumped from below. These walkways and tall multi-use structures had been repaired quickly in the years following Andross's assault. You had to go well off the beaten path to see crumbling buildings and wreckage: back to the kind of neighborhoods that Wolf grew up in, because who gave a fuck about a scrappy little street rat having a place to sleep when you could charge twenty bucks a drink downtown? Especially in a time where everyone just wanted to get drunk off their ass and forget the sound of bombs and shrapnel raining down like hailstones.

There were still such simple things Wolf would never be able to experience, like strolling down this street in broad daylight without a care in the world, grabbing Fortuna fusion from a food truck, and ducking into Grounds Zero for one of those fancy lattes with an Arwing drawn on them. Your average dumbfuck trapped between an office job and a nagging wife had more freedom than him, there.

His good eye glanced up at the black nothing of the sky, where light pollution obliterated any trace of light save the twinkling from an occasional passing satellite. Meteo was up there. Sargasso was up there. His people were up there, and they needed him just the same way the people down here needed McCloud.

Waxing sentimental was easier here than there, where every buzz of his comm needed immediate attention. Now, there was a day's travel between him and the rest of his empire, so they'd just have to make do. It was like a vacation to a damn prison where he had to skulk around like a cockroach, but at least he didn't have a swarm of gnats buzzing around his nose. He might never set foot in any of those fancy restaurants, but still, here where Wolf was most reviled and unwanted--it was where he had his most freedom. It was where he could remember what life was like before that accursed Fox shot him out of the sky.

---

I'm on Corneria, Wolf said. Falco's projection was bleary-eyed, still trying to process getting called by Wolf twice in such rapid succession.

Okay, Falco said. Two questions. One, why are you on Corneria? And two, why are you calling me again?

Business, Wolf said. And I'll give you three guesses, but only three, so make 'em good. The bed underneath him was too soft, and the covers were too rough. Every time he came down here, it was to a different prison-cell of a studio, so no one ever caught on. Why'd you pick up?

Iunno, because I thought it might be important? Gee, boo on me for not expecting a friendly chat from Wolf O'Donnell at three in the morning.

Everything I do is important, he said. Here's an important question: what do normal people talk about in these friendly chats?

'scuse me?

You heard me, Wolf said. I catch my goons chatting up their comms all the time. Never can figure out why.

I don't know, Wolf. Falco was visibly annoyed, and his voice was all biting sarcasm. Murder and blasters and G-Diffusers.

Ouch, birdie. Sounds like your tailfeathers are gettin' tangled. Are you gonna hang up on me?

Falco sighed. You're a fuckin' trip, you know that?

You don't know what normal people talk about, Wolf said. 'cause you're a fuckin' trip, too.

I didn't know you moonlighted as a goddamn therapist.

Sarcasm to deflect, Wolf said. I'm an expert in that one.

Whatever, Falco said. But he wasn't frowning anymore; instead, he seemed to be fighting a grin... or whatever the bird equivalent was. Fox would kill me if he knew we were talking, you know. Is that why you're calling?

Close, but--actually, nah, nowhere fucking close. That's strike one.

Falco rolled his eyes. He decapitated a beer bottle and brought it up to his lips for a sip. Sports. Beer. Girls. Whatever the fuck that dumb bitch Tanya said at the office. At Wolf's confused squint, he went on. That's what normal people talk about.

Don't like sports. Don't care about beer. Don't like girls. Don't work a desk and don't give a shit about Tanya.

Right, right. Why am I not surprised. Falco sighed. Figures a fuckface like you could never get laid.

Never said I don't like sex, Wolf said. He forgot that most Cornerians still didn't know, somehow. Just don't like girls.

Falco made a face that he quickly hid away behind another swig of beer. Oh. So, you're hitting on me.

Strike two, Wolf said. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd fuck you if you wanted. But I'm sure you don't. He savored the uncomfortable look on Falco's beak. It'd just be so much work, you know? I'd have to seduce you, convince you fucking one dude don't make you gay, and for what? Just so I could tell Fox I fucked his best friend? If I wanted to fuck with him, I'd just show up at his door in my underwear.

Falco clicked his tongue. He almost looked insulted. Lazy-ass wolf.

Not lazy, Wolf said, leering. Just not sure you're worth it.

Falco closed his eyes and elected not to take the bait. This is what normal people talk about on comms, maybe. Sex. Fucking.

Probably, Wolf said.

Y'know, it's kinda funny, Falco said. I always figured was the gay one, but it's you.

Wolf squinted. What, catch him sucking dick on the weekends?

Nah, I just--no, no, hold on a second, I get it, Falco said, leaning forward. You're calling me to get dirt on Fox. I'll give you his fucking number, just call him yourself. Grow a pair.

Fox and I don't have anything to say to each other, Wolf said. Best if I stay off his radar altogether. So, nice try, but you're wrong. And that's your third strike, so it looks like our little chat is over.

Gee, I'm so thankful you graced me with your presence. Next time why don't you consider shoving--

Wolf cut the line off, at that, and took a moment to lie down on his back. Out came his comm, and he scrolled down a list of names. Yeah, he needed to shove something, alright. He needed to get laid, and he was willing to pay for it. But the sag in his eyes grew with each passing second, and was he really willing to risk someone calling the CDF on his ass once they realized who he was?

Months. It'd been months. And it'd be at least one day more.

Time to go jerk it in the shower, then sleep through the day, then travel during the night, and he'd be all home, sweet home, just in time to drag his ass into the Wolfen and blow up some dissidents.

Maybe he'd get laid on Thursday.

---

...I got drunk and let a guy suck my dick once, Falco said.

Wolf leaned in. The baseball-sized blaster burn on his obliques didn't like that very much, and it coaxed out a wince. Why'd you tell me that?

Falco sat up straight, defensively. Wolf found it amusing that all the tasteless sex jokes in the world couldn't make the bird as uncomfortable as one genuine question about why he'd chosen to open up, for once. Falco was at home as usual, which Wolf mostly knew because he'd occasionally point the camera the wrong way and flash guilty, errant socks lying neglected on the floor. Wolf was perched in his cockpit, halfway to Sector Five. Fuck if I know, Falco muttered.

Because you can't tell anyone else, right? You know I'm not gonna spill your secrets, and no one will believe me if I do... Wolf flashed his teeth. Wanna give me your bank account numbers while you're at it, just for safekeeping?

Falco glared at him. I'm not offering, in case you're wondering.

And I wouldn't accept, Wolf said. I don't like sucking dick.

And I don't like butt-stuff.

Then we ain't fucking. There, we got all the sexual tension ironed out real fast, didn't we? Wolf paused. Unless you're into frotting, in which case, we got a real problem.

You're a freak, Falco said.

And you keep picking up.

Falco shrugged, irritated. Yeah, I'd totally rather listen to some prissy bitch whine about how the grocery store is out of flank steak.

Try fucking men, Wolf said. They whine less. Anyway, where were we? You were gonna tell me why you thought Fox was gay.

And you were gonna send a harem of ten eager bunny sluts to my doorstep.

If that's what it takes.

Falco shook his head. Are you gonna try to fuck him? Don't you hate him?

Wolf shrugged. That was a complicated question. But Wolf's motivations weren't so grand: just an idle curiosity on a work trip where he didn't have anything better to do. Fucked plenty of people I hate. You should try it. It's hot.

Call him, Falco said. Tell him yourself.

I said I wanna fuck him, not talk to him. Sheesh, don't jump to conclusions. By now, the ponderous forms of Sector Five's little cluster of stations had ambled into view. I got five minutes. I'll send you to bed with three eager whores tonight if you spill.

You're serious. Falco rubbed at his forehead with a hand. You really think I can't just hire a prostitute if I wanted one?

Yeah, but I could hire you ten. At the same time. You'd drown in pussy. Wolf leered. ...how's that work, anyway, with the beak? Can you even eat girls out, or do you just stick the whole thing in?

Falco was trying his hardest not to laugh. No fucking--hhg, no fucking prostitutes, okay? I'll tell you, just so you'll shut up. Falco rubbed his forehead. Look, there was this bitch... let's call her Tanya. Had a total thing for Fox, wouldn't take no for an answer. So she made up some shit, said she saw Fox sucking Bill's dick in the flight sims. But I know that's a lie.

I've sucked dick in weirder places.

Didn't you just say you didn't like--you know, whatever, I'm sure you have, Faggot-In-Chief. But--listen, she was crazy, she just wanted Fox for herself, Falco said. And besides, Bill never set foot in the sims.

Wolf's eyes fixated on the looming uncomfortable mass of Sector Five's central station; it grew closer with every passing second. Time was short. All this talking about sucking dick was nice foreplay... or, a nice distraction from the reality of how many people he'd have to kill today on that station. Maybe he could get away with just five or six: all errant smugglers who thought they could gyp him. Wolf wished he could just suck a damn dick and not have to pull the trigger so many times, but the people around him were so consistently disappointing that they inevitably ended up under Wolf's gun rather than his maw.

Wolf stretched out his legs. So, this Bill fellow...

Yeah? You remember him?

Never heard of him, Wolf said. You know, I'm running short on time. I really do like it when I can play nice, but relationships like this, like you and I have? They take a lot of time, a lot of investment. And when I don't got the time to play nice, I gotta play naughty.

Falco's eyes were narrow as slits. The fuck you goin' on about?

Relax, relax. I ain't gonna kidnap his daughter, or nothing. I'll just plant a bomb in his ship, corner him somewhere, tell him some dumb bitch Tanya told me--

Fucking hell, man, Falco said. You aren't serious.

What, you think I'm gonna run to the tabloids if you squeal? Nah, little bird. I just wanna know, for me. Because if Fox is a fag, then the big dipshit in the sky sure has it out for me, 'cause that's a real fuckin' funny joke. Wolf flashed a morbid, humorless grin right at Falco's projection. Wolf fingered his blaster, strapped to his side. You think we coulda been boyfriends if I grew up a rich little fuck like him and we went to that cute academy together?

Falco was fighting a grin, which confused Wolf until the bird spoke. Sarcasm to deflect, he said.

Wolf snapped his jaws. By instinct, he'd tugged his blaster from his waist and had it pointed at Falco's projection. Bite me, bird.

He's gay, Falco said. Didn't look scared, just tired. Don't fuck with Bill, man. Falco's voice was a low mumble. And I know for a fact. He sucked my dick, alright? Just once. He was the guy.

Wolf studied the bird's image. Falco's eyes were downcast, and Wolf sheathed his blaster. Well? How was it?

Too drunk to remember, Falco said. He was all apologetic about it, too. Real embarrassed. Mighta let him do it again if he wasn't. Always thought things would get weird.

Now, Wolf was all up close and personal with the looming black mass of the Sector Five main station; the docking bay opened before his ship, and he slowly guided himself until his Wolfen jolted to a stop in the bay. Don't worry, Wolf said. I'll find out what you were missing and report back in lurid detail.

Falco's response was a solitary middle finger leveled right at Wolf's face before the feed cut off.

He'd still pick up next time. Like clockwork. Everything, like clockwork.

---

Wake. Eat. Work. Shit. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Work. 'Sleep' but get woken up by the sound of blaster shots down the hall.

Nothing changed. Eli was still a moron. Mira was still a genius. Panther still creamed his ass (5-1 in sims, ouch). Leon was still a creep. Falco still picked up--God knew why, at this point. Probably because being bitter and irritated was preferable to being bored and soulless.

He fucked Chris the Bunny last weekend. It was fine. Not bad, just fine. No time to knot, just pump and pump and squeeze near the base 'til Wolf popped, then kick the bitch out and tell him to come back next month. The sex was good, but mediocre. Dull. Good wasn't good enough, these days. He could stack up fifteen bare asses on his bed any night of the week for his claim, but that still wouldn't be good enough. It'd just be work.

Andrew was building forces. Too bad he was an incompetent moron. The Exonerated Noble Heir to Lord Andross the Great's Glorious Empire had money and fanatical followers out the ass, but he was just another horse in the bar on Sector Nine, an adversary unworthy of the respect a drawn gun would signify. A cute pet to keep in the corner and poke at when he got too cocky, and a demon to hold over his own people's head to keep them in line.

The rest of his opposition was a ragtag band of silly dissidents: petty fools who understood nothing about the economics of crime and needed a boot to the chin to teach it to them. There were no more rival gangs left, really: only the criminal equivalent of whinging little brats not taking no for an answer when Daddy won't buy them a Katina Krunch at the supermarket.

Wolf had won. Why wasn't he happy?

Are you happy? he asked Falco, on another trip back to Sector Nine that had him questioning how Mira would take it if he just blew the whole damn thing up.

Falco looked at him like he was a complete moron. The bird was munching on a bag of those gross cheese-flavored gummy-worms that must have been a bird thing. What does-- Smack, smack. --that even mean?

Fuck if I know, Wolf said. I'm just bored. Smack, smack. Hey, do you wanna know why I keep calling you?

Smack. Enlighten me.

You're the only one in my contacts whose ass I don't own.

Well look at you, drowning in booty. How does that work, with not having a beak?

It all stinks, Wolf said. The only people I respect out here, they're already working for me.

He thought about that throughout the rest of the week. Why would Wolf be happy when he was king? Wolf was at his best claiming the throne, not perching atop it: that was for wastrels who needed people bowing and calling them Sir to feel important. He'd crushed everything in his path, and there were no new mountains to climb, no new challengers to smack down. He'd peaked. From here on, he'd just get old and fat.

Wolf had won. That's why he wasn't happy.