"What am I going to do with you?"

Panchito didn't answer the question. It wasn't that he hadn't heard. No, far from it. It was just he had heard the same thing so many times. He knew that the question didn't need an answer. It was spoken more to make a point; a point that had been made countless times before. So Panchito decided not to answer.

Instead, he focused on holding the pack of ice to his throbbing head. He was very sore, but that was understandable; and it wasn't just his head. His back felt as though it had a visible footprint lodged between his shoulder blades, where one of his foes had kicked him. He had scratches, scrapes, and bruises all over his body from where he had landed hard on the boardwalk. Then, of course, there was his chest, which still stung with a fiery itch; a reminder of those terribly, sharp claws.

He tried not to move too much, as it caused the pain to flare up again. He preferred the dull ache to the screaming burn of his injuries. So, to hide his discomfort, he sat as still as he could in the comfortable chair in the well furnished office; the office of his employer and friend, Colonel Hawkins. It wasn't a big room, but it certainly made up for that in appearance. The floor was carpeted with a thick, brown and gold rug that stretched from one corner of the room to the other. Not one board of flooring showed; a rather uncommon feature for a place of work. But Hawkins could afford it. The walls were painted a pale yellow, which caught the sunlight streaming in through the curtained window and reflected it all around. Framed pictures decorated here and there; mostly paintings of long-dead predecessors of the Colonel, or portraits of vain dignitaries who had sent them as gifts.

On one wall, to Panchito's right, was an elegantly crafted fireplace. The detail panel and legs were delicately carved marble, with figures of ferns and oak leaves depicting a scene of early autumn. The hearth was made of thin slabs of the same marble, laying level with the carpet. It had a high mantel, on which was placed all manner of fine chinaware, mostly of Mexican design. The intricate and colorful patterns of the pottery looked out of place in the distinctly American-looking setting. Of course, the same could be said for the only two persons in the room. While Panchito stood out, with his red attire and sombrero, Colonel Hawkins, an American through and through, fit right in; almost blending into the background. Like the mahogany desk...

The same mahogany desk from which the Colonel was glaring over at him. The tall, ageing hawk had a gaze that Panchito was sure could freeze the Gulf of Mexico solid in August. During a heat wave.

Hawkins sighed. He could see the distracted gaze in Panchito's eyes. The way he seemed to not hear his inquiry. Jason Hawkins had known the young rooster for many years now; since Panchito was just a small boy. Spending all that time with him had taught the Colonel one thing, and that was that Panchito liked to go by his own rules. An unfortunate characteristic, especially for Hawkins, who struggled to keep fellow under control. "Agent Quintero González, look at me when I am speaking to you."

The use of his real last name, as well as the way he had been addressed like a child, got Panchito's attention, and he looked up sharply.

"This can't keep happening," the Colonel continued. "This is your sixth accident, and frankly...well, I'm worried." He saw a look of annoyance cross his friend's face. Hawkins tried not to take it personally. He knew Panchito didn't mean any disrespect to him. Not directly, anyway. Panchito just didn't seem to understand the importance of authority. Which wasn't a good view when you were a USM Border agent; who was supposed to represent authority on the United States/Mexican border. He needed to know how to take orders, not just give them.

Panchito leaned forward, almost wincing as the motion pulled on his chest. "But, Señor Hawkins, that is what I am paid to do, no? Take the risks to ensure the safety of others?"

"Yes," Hawkins said in frustration, "But that's not what you're doing! You keep taking unnecessary risks." He gestured to the rooster's bandaged head and chest. To him it was obvious. His friend's carelessness was a hazard. Why couldn't Panchito see it?

"Like what, Señor?"

"Like last night! Why didn't you wait for backup? You knew they were coming! All you had to do was keep tabs on the enemies whereabouts!''

"They would have gotten away!" Panchito defended quickly. He thought over the events of the night before. Sure he could have waited; played it safe, but that would have given the enemy the upper hand. Panchito absently raised a hand to his head. Not that they hadn't already had it.

Hawkins snorted. "And so you decide to take on five vultures alone?!" He always dreaded hearing reports of when any of his agents were injured, but Panchito in particular. Mostly because the rooster's wounds were always caused by accidents and incidents that could have been prevented. Like two months ago when he had jumped that runaway stagecoach. Sure he had saved both the passengers and the driver; but if he had paused to think, Hawkins was positive he could have come up with a safer way of stop the coach without spraining his leg. Then there was that time he had charged into a room filled with armed gunmen and a single hostage. Sure he surprised the villains so badly he was able to get the drop on their leader, but that same surprise made one of the foes fire a pistol by accident; hitting Panchito in the side. Then there was last night. Panchito always rushed in without thinking. It was his greatest characteristic, but also his greatest fault. "You were almost killed!"

Panchito fell silent and averted his eyes. He didn't want to admit it, but the Colonel was right. Last night had been a little too close for comfort. Shortly after being knocked unconscious, Panchito had been found by the backup agents Hawkins had sent. They said he hadn't been injured too badly; besides a blow to the head and some puncture marks on his chest. All trace of that monster of a bird and his four secuaces* was gone by then. They had flown the coop, so to speak. In truth, the only success Panchito had had on this mission was in succeeding in getting himself in trouble once again.

"I just don't know what to do with you," the Colonel repeated, throwing his hands in the air. He pushed himself up from his own chair behind the desk and went to stand by the window. He looked out at the training grounds of the USM Border Headquarters. It was a busy place. Dust was constantly kicked up in the courtyard, where agents came and went through the guarded gates. Hawkins knew this place; had spent most of his life here. Starting as an agent himself, he worked up through the ranks until, finally, he reached his current position. He had always hoped that becoming a Colonel would bring instant ease to his life. He had been wrong. In fact, he found sending men to their possible death was worse than going himself. And it was agents like Panchito, who he truly cared about, who made it even harder. "You're one of the best agents we have. When something goes wrong there's no one else I'd rather send than you...But you're reckless. It's a danger, to yourself and others."

"That's why I work better alone, Señor."

"Exactly! And working alone is what's going to kill you!" Again the Colonel sighed, making his way over to stand by his desk. He gave the young rooster sitting before him a hard look. "I've tried to match you up with a suitable partner, like our policy demands-"

"And it almost worked," Panchito offered weakly. He was trying to smooth this whole thing over as best he could, but, as usual, his attempts only helped in making things worse.

"Almost worked?!" The Colonel cried, "Panchito, Agent Smith is just starting to regain his ability to walk, and Agent Martéla is still recovering from brain trauma!"

Panchito winced.

"You don't stop to think about the safety of yourself or those under your command," Hawkins continued. "That's why they get hurt. That's why you get hurt. There's a reason we assign agents in pairs; to watch each other's backs. When one has a failing the other is supposed to pick up the slack. One of these days something's going to happen, and you're going to wish you had that support." He ran a hand over his face. The next words physically hurt him to say. "I'm seriously beginning to wonder if you even belong in the field."

Panchito's eyes widened. "Señor!"

"Well, what else can I do?! I can't keep dealing with this! You put more of our own men out of commission than you do bandits and thugs!" That might have been an exaggeration, but he was trying to make a point. Panchito really was an excellent agent. But he didn't obey the rules. And friend of the Colonel's or not, the rooster could only take it so far before the higher ups began to ask questions. After all, a desk piled with reports on agents injured by 'accident' was bound to raise an eyebrow somewhere in the upper ranks. General Almaraz had already written two letters asking for an explaination, and Hawkins was running out of things to tell him.

"Please, Colonel," Panchito pleaded. He got up off his seat and placed both hands on the mahogany desk, forgetting all about the pain in his head and chest. "There is nothing else I can do; no place to go! It is all I have ever known; you understand that better than anyone else! Please, Señor, this is my life!"

"Than I suggest you get your 'life' under control," Hawkins stated coldly. On the inside it pained him to see his friend so upset. But this was the only option left. He needed to lay down the law; draw the line. If Panchito crossed it...well, Hawkins just hoped it wouldn't come to that. He'd hate to be down another agent...and a friend.

"...Sí, Señor," was all Panchito said. His eyes were focused on the carpeted floor, and he had stood up straight, like most agents would have done in Hawkins presence. He knew he was is serious trouble now. He knew he had pushed it too far. Not that he had been able to help it. It was just how he was. Who he was.

"I want you to get a partner," the Colonel continued. "Since the ones I've chosen for you in the past have all been hospitalized, I assume my taste in agents doesn't match your...exciting life style. Therefore, I give you a week to find a partner that suits you. Maybe if it's someone you know, you'll be more careful. This isn't exactly regulation, so I want you to keep this quiet." His hard gaze softened and he smiled sadly, coming forward and laying a gentle hand on the red rooster's shoulder. "This is the last chance I can give you, Pachito. Please, try to make it work."

Panchito felt uncomfortable under the Colonel's fatherly touch and gaze. No amount of friendly words or gestures could sugar coat the fact that he had just been severely reprimanded. He was certain about the Colonel's warning though; this was his last chance. And if he wanted to continue his life in the secret service; the life he loved, he needed to get things under control. If part of that was getting some slow, wet-behind-the-ears partner, well then, so be it. He closed his eyes and gave a nod. "I won't disappoint you, Señor."

Hawkins' smile faltered slightly as he slowly removed his hand. "I hope not."

...

*Secuaces = henchmen

Alright, here's another chapter. Might be a little slow in the beginning (setting up the story takes some work, you know). And don't worry; Donald and Jose will make an appearance pretty soon. :)

Please, don't forget to review. It encourages me and lets me know I'm not writing this for only myself. :)