(A/N : Non-negligible inspiration was drawn from Allegory, by Swiper. No Swiping and Bump, by Damned Elize. Two wonderful fics.)

.

.

.

.

.

We don't exist in a vacuum, asshole.

Every action we choose impacts the fate of the universe.

Each decision affects the outcome of the future.

.

.

.

.

.

Get that?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

He comes to.

First, awareness of pain.

Eyes attempt to open. Left orbit tight, throbbing, compressed. Slow, painful motion of eyelids held together by some sort of crust.

The world comes into focus, haze against haze. Patches of white and black superimposed on larger patch of gray. Then, the recognition.

Wolf O'Donnell.

He opens his maw to speak and a sound escapes, some cross between a hiss and a whimper. Flashes of pain. Jaw motion constrained. Tongue, stiff and inarticulate. Throat, exceedingly dry.

"Looks like you're up now, Pup." The wolf's face, poised uncomfortably close to his own, contorts into a lopsided grin. Black-tinged lips curl to reveal the roots of two sharp fangs, glimmering in the darkness.

"The hell…" Managed weakly. Consciousness veiled by a curtain of fog. Beneath his body, something soft, not uncomfortable. Lulling him back to slumber. A mattress, was it?

"Moderate head trauma. Probable concussion." The wolf's shoulders lift in a shrug. "Just be glad you're still alive."

"Gee… thanks." Words are muddled, subdued to a whine. Attempt at sarcasm, failed.

Damn it. He was having so much trouble.

Both his arms, he only now realizes, are elevated above his head, fixed in some odd position. An attempt is made to move one, then the other – but the motion is met with resistance. It would appear that something is there, holding his wrists together. This information is noted, as his heart rate begins to elevate.

"How clever," O'Donnell jeers. "Ejected yourself just on time, it seems. Such cowardice, Fox McCloud. I would've expected better."

That's right.

Red Wolfen tailing him at ferocious speed. Twin throttles shoved to the limit. Shield dropping fast, hard. Wobble of the wing and suddenly the entire aircraft shudders, his throne in the air is usurped as smoke explodes around him, cacophony of warning signals and there's no escape except down so he remembers, he remembers the somersault technique and as the control stick is pulled back back the nose of the Arwing goes up up, blue sky a shapeless blur then the dive, negative G's sending his heart lurching down into the white of the Fichinian wasteland snow below hand reaches out for the lever the red lever of last-ditch salvation he pulls it and –

Blackout.

And now, here. A dark place. In some kind of small room, judging from the angle at which the walls meet the ceiling. The walls are bare.

And O'Donnell. Long grey muzzle sticking right into his face.

Why was Wolf here? What – internal shudder – was Wolf planning? The once dull and generalized pain has now localized itself, acquiring sharpness and resolution along his back in the lumbar area. The force of the ejection – it must have crushed the disks in his vertebrae. Superimposed on that, perhaps some other injury, sustained upon landing.

Slowly, his proprioceptive awareness returns. Fox finds that he is in fact lying at horizontal, upper body somewhat elevated, but not quite yet seated. His wrists, held above his head, have indeed been bound. To what? A bedpost, it appears. By visual cues, he finds to his horror that his legs have been splayed. The naked fur is orange and cream, jarringly bright in the dim light. His flight suit is gone, boots also – every shred of clothing stripped away from his body except perhaps the bandanna, the presence of which he perceives as a nauseatingly warm, constricting object around his neck.

And at last he sees, from the corner of his eyeballs straining against their sockets, O'Donnell's paw placed on the orange-cream junction of his left thigh. But the sensation does not transmit, and he feels nothing. Fox wills – no, begs the thigh to move away. It does not.

"I thought I'd drug you. But that won't be necessary now… Don't you think?"

Hiss-whimper.

"I've also removed your clothes… You made quite a mess there, when I first found ya."

The faint odour of shit and urine drifts to his nostrils. Fox gags. Of course. With sufficiently hard impact, the spinal cord undergoes shock. Functions of continence become suspended. Prognosis for recovery, variable.

"Even heroes… even heroes are made of shit and piss." Wolf is snorting. Clearly bemused.

Humiliation. Utter humiliation. A strong desire, all of a sudden, to burst into hot, uncontrollable tears. He retains himself. To his relief, he succeeds. Thankfully. A last shred of bodily control.

"Why…" sharp intake of breath, and wince. "Why… don't you just kill me?"

"It's funnier to watch you suffer."

"Fuck… you."

"That's some way to thank the one who saved you." The wolf has removed the paw, and is now scratching his chin with the long claw of his index finger. "Yes, I saved you. Just like how you saved that Krystal girl. Can't you demonstrate some recognition?"

"You… fucking blew up my ship." Pause, for breath. "Some… savior you are."

Wolf smiles.

"By all accounts, Fox McCloud is dead. Three days, and no signs of life. The wreckage of his Arwing was confirmed by photographic evidence. General Pepper believes it. Even Andross buys it. Your teammates are on their way to Solar. To the world, you are dead, Fox McCloud."

The gray form leans in closer. Horrible, terrifying grin still plastered upon the muzzle. Eerie. Untrustworthy.

"Don't worry, Pup. Just stay with me."

With horror, Fox watches O'Donnell's shoulder, and by extension, arm, as they travel higher up the disconnected thigh.

"Fuck you!"

A little more vigor now. Heartbeat quickening. Rage, anger, powerlessness rise as the adrenaline kicks in. His broken body, it comes back to life. Thoughts, questions, retaliation, all swirling around in his aching head –

And interrupted, by the claw suddenly now on his lips gently caressing.

Explosion of anger as he whips his head and jaws at the claw, which retreats just in time for his jowls to clamp down at the air.

"Easy there, Pup," Wolf laughs. "You're not going anywhere." Still that smile. That ugly, condescending and omniscient smile. The single eye gleams frightfully.

"Why'd you take me here?"

Another shrug from the lupine. "Personal interests."

"Let me guess, you're gonna send me off to Andross? Keep me hostage? Torture me to death?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I'll do what I please with my catch, thank you very much."

And Fox can't move, upper body constrained and lower half unresponsive. All resistance futile.

"Who do you think you are –"

Another action from Wolf's part. This time, the entire claw snakes up his chin, the underside of his muzzle. Fox feels the sweat, beading at the base of his ears. He is nauseous; he is dizzy.

"You're not in a position to argue or question me, Fox McCloud."

"Stop… This isn't a game! We… I… have no time –"

"Correction. We've got all the time in the world."

"There's a fucking war, Wolf! There's a fucking war, and people are dying!"

Pain brought upon by the effort.

"And what do you think you'll do 'bout it, Kid?"

"I'll save Corneria! I'll avenge my father! I'm gonna kill Andross, and you too!" Panting, coughing, dry heaving.

"What do you think this is? Some sort of fairytale? A magical world where everything happens just the way you'd like it to?"

Wolf edges closer.

"This is life, Pup. Not some kid's fantasy, not some sort of thing in the Academy where all you gotta do is to get an A+ in every stupid technical class, get one hundred fucking percent in your fucking simulations, shoot down a couple of dummy drones while mommy and daddy and all the fuckers down there come around to applaud you. Oh, you think you're a hero all right, some fucking star, fresh outta military college with your hopes strung high and all. But this is war. A real, fucking war. Death is real, Kiddo. When it's game over, you lose."

"Shut it, Wolf! You're just Andross' pawn! A heartless mercenary!"

"What makes you think you're different, Pup? At the end of the day you save the world and saunter back home with a fat ol' paycheck. Money, money. Isn't that what makes the world run? Oh, all that fame and glory too. Let's not forget while we're at it. Bet you're waiting for the war to end, and for that fat ol' general to put some shiny hunk o' metal around your neck. War's just a game, eh? Just pick a side, the one most convenient to you."

"I have morals, Wolf."

"I, too, have morals. Different morals. Lead my pack, survive with the fittest. Get my way with the universe, and whatever's under it. Make the best out of the absurd thing called life."

Hiss. "Why are you always in my fucking way?"

"I could say that you're always in mine. It' a matter of perspective."

"The fucking Lylat System is in danger! I am trying my best, okay?"

Panting. Heaving. Shivering. Shaking through and through. As though all the energy has escaped him. All reserves spent. The mattress is soft, soft under his tired body.

Wolf's single eye narrows. Furrows in his brows.

"So you think you're all that important, Pup? Eh? Hero. World needs you, and all that bullshit. Wrong, all wrong."

Head spinning. Senses numb. He watches Wolf's paw run along the fur between his nipples, moving downward. Pain, deep pain. Was it because of Wolf's claws? Or was the pressure simply making him aware of the agony already present?

"No one cares that you're gone," Wolf continues. "Corneria's gonna pump out more fighters, just you wait. A new team will take the lead. The war's gonna move ahead, Kid. What makes you think that your presence or absence would've ever made a difference?"

Wince. Another caress, delivered with insistence. Body is powerless, incapable of further thought or motion.

"I've waited quite some time for this, Fox."

The vulpine can't peel his gaze from Wolf's single eye, whose amethyst mist is a miniature black hole expanding and expanding around him on all sides, about to devour him whole.

"For fuck's sake, Wolf! The world's about to end!"

The lupine's head is so close now, the space between their muzzles has been reduced to nothing. The heat of Wolf's breath blows into the inside of his nose, filling his nasal cavities and lungs, nauseating him.

"The world can wait, Pup." Wolf's smile grows wide, pointed white fangs gleaming in the darkness.

That's when Fox realized what exactly the authors of those fairy tales were thinking of when they invented the Big, Bad Wolf.

End