"Are you sure about this, Ratchet?" Clank sat up, nursing what looked like motor oil with a screw-bolt garnish.

Ratchet leaned back on what looked to be an oversized beanbag, the claws of his armor tapping on the hip-plate of his armor. "Hell no. As far as I'm concerned, I'm just following this as far as getting my damn armor off, and then . . . I don't know. I'm not used to this."

"Exactly what about the situation concerns you?"

Ratchet blinked. "What, you don't think I actually should-?"

He received an answer with a shrug of Clank's little shoulders. "I'm not entirely certain of the situation myself. I understand what they do, but without the appropriate species context . . . it's a little confusing."

"The fuck does sp-! Oh . . ." Ratchet groaned, shaking his head. "Does it really make a difference? It's porn."

"And it means different things to different species." Clank shook his head. "I look at a film designed for you and I actually judge it on technical features; you look at a film designed for me and you can't even comprehend it."

Ratchet rolled his eyes. "I'm relatively certain that fucking is universal; there's nothing mysterious about inserting Tab A into Slot B. I'm sure whenever you get interested in that, you'll figure it out too."

Clank's eyes went narrow, almost in a concerned look. Ratchet raised an eyebrow, and then twigged it a few moments later, his face morphing into an expression of disbelief. Clank didn't answer it with anything but a turn of his seat, and Ratchet held onto his forehead, as though he needed to scrub out the mental image.

"THAT was what you were doing on the couch?" Ratchet shouted out, gathering the attention of five more people. "I was trying to hit on Angela when you were doing that! You didn't even ask for a blanket or anything!"

"Honestly, Ratchet, what did you think we were doing?" Clank remarked, incredulous.

"I don't know . . . swapping files? Recharging? Anything but-. I mean, damn . . ."

"Case in point." Clank hopped off of his chair, walking over to Ratchet. "I'll freely admit to knowing they're in the sex industry, but that doesn't mean I understand what's going on. You do."

Ratchet shook his head. "You really want me to explain this?"

"Hell, I'd like an explanation. I like their stuff but I don't get it." A passerby spoke up, raising a hand.

"Me too!" A female piped up, walking closer, and within the span of a commercial break, three different species had huddled around Ratchet to listen to him.

Ratchet blinked at the crowd, before snapping back with, "Why the hell don't I get this kind of crowd when I talk about taking down Doctor Nefarious?"

"Because only half of the group speaks hero!" Someone shot back, earning an interesting amount of laughter.

With a roll of his eyes, Ratchet leaned back further on his beanbag, trying to steady himself. "You only honestly understand it if you're a Lombax. I'm not trying to be a racist about this, but of the few mammalian species I've encountered, only a Lombax has ears sensitive enough to make the whole Tied Silk concept work. Now sure, everyone likes a little ear nibble, but these ears, at this size? Incredibly sensitive, and with good reason.

"A good Lombax takes care of his ears because his ears take care of him. Picks up everything to hear, pinpoints sneak attacks, cools you off in those hot climates, helps you find a good headwind . . . Many a Lombax thanks his ears for getting him out of a bad situation, but the downside is that for all intents and purposes, you may as well be running around with your testicles on the side of your head, because that's what it feels like." Ratchet glanced at one of his ears, holding it gingerly, before continuing with, "Most people don't realize it, but if you've got a Lombax by his ears, you can do pretty much anything you want to him, because the pain of any damage occurring to these babies is that intense. There's a reason that getting your ears pursed was used so much as a punishment in the old slave days, and it's not because of the reduced profile."

A crowd member peeped up, cutting Ratchet off. "So what's the point of this?"

"You know how certain species think the female orgasm is a myth?" Ratchet remarked. "That's how most of the planet Veldin thought about their ears. They're sensitive, yes, but until recently next to nobody thought you could get off just by messing with your ears, because, let's face it — you tell a teenager that he can masturbate just by rubbing his head on the carpet hard enough, and he'll lock himself in his room for at least a week. Tied Silk changed all that. You guys consider it softcore because there's no nipples or nobody actually fucks anyone else or whatever, but you don't see what the show actually did for the whole damned species. Much of the buildup and 'foreplay' involved in those episodes is a clinical walkthrough to prove that it's entirely possible to have an orgasm that way, without having to do much of anything else. The shows are just straight-up ear fetish with a touch of restraint bondage, and the only reason you guys care about it is that they actually film it well enough that it becomes universal in spite of itself."

Half of the crowd blinked, giving Ratchet just enough time to smirk and add on, "That's where the damn name of the show comes from. 'Silk' is common slang for the ears, plain and simple, just like you guys would go on about tits, melons, hooters . . . am I making it clear yet?"

There was a resounding 'Aaah' as the crowd got it, and Ratchet decided to sink into the beanbag for now, just trying to quiet himself. Just talking so much about it was already having an effect on him, or at minimum it was actually making his ass feel better already. He could practically feel his tail twitch inside of him without nearly as much pain as before.

"Beautiful explanation, Ratchet. I may have to find a way to use that one later."

Ratchet blinked, opening one eye to find himself staring back from the reflection of a camcorder lens. "How much of that did you just . . .?"

"I picked up everything from the 'female orgasm' remark on." Staccato smiled, putting his camcorder down for just a moment. "My wife and I try to explain it, but it just feels so . . . matter-of-fact. Almost like we're too wrapped up in how deep we've taken the whole concept that we can't pull back and start people off at square one."

Ratchet smirked, shrugging. "It all depends on the audience."

"For right now, you're the only audience I'm concerned about." Staccato picked up his camcorder, pointing it over at Ratchet again. "Just for the sake of our own records . . . mind if we still do the interview process beforehand before we get too far along in all this? I'm relatively certain there's going to be more messed with than your ears on this one."

"What's that meant to mean?" Ratchet raised an eyebrow, piqued.

"My main issue tonight is cutting that armor off of you somehow, and . . . I just don't have much clue what kind of damage might be under there. Obviously you're still alive, so it's nothing nanotech can't fix, but I've heard of some crazy stories about armor-graft atrophy that I'm not even sure I can film with a clear conscience." Staccato winced, a frown visible behind the camcorder. "I'm sure you've heard quite a few of them in your time as well."

"I don't know what you're expecting to run across, but I was knocked out cold when they suited me up. I'm in pain, sure, but I don't feel like I've actually 'lost' anything bodywise." Ratchet shrugged, then sighed, concerned. "How bad are you expecting, actually? You've got me worried now."

"We're not sure, to be honest. You were wearing that suit for about a year, and depending on the nature of the suit and several other things, it's possible that parts of your body have attached themselves to the suit, or that it could have fed on your muscles and you wouldn't notice this because the armor compensated for this loss, and that's not including the obvious recycling of waste materials that the suit forced back into your body and the side effects of that . . . Right now, I'm not even sure if it's healthy to separate you from it, but we have to try anyway because we know that even if it isn't healthy to take you out of it, it has to be healthier than keeping you in it."

Ratchet frowned, worried. "What's the worst I'm looking at here?"

Staccato sighed. "Pretty much anything short of passing out on the floor and dying. Hydro Girl doesn't have the same issues as you because her armor had to be a different grade entirely in order to accommodate her aquatic form. You're our only 'real' survivor of DreadZone who's worn that armor, and quite simply, most armor isn't meant to be worn for more than two weeks straight at most, and that's meant to include wearing protective jumpsuits to prevent most of these issues. Best case, we hose you off and give you a brief physical to make sure your body's all in order. Worst case . . . you might not even be able to walk."

Ratchet sat there, silent, and already starting to feel slightly depressed. "What if I just keep the suit on?"

"Not an option." The reply was curt, blunt, and brutal. "Ratchet, if you're going to have these problems, it's going to happen either way. Either we take the suit off now and confront whatever problems we're going to have with it head-on, or else you keep the suit on, continue to self-medicate with nanotech to mask the problems, and just keep chasing the sun until one day you keel over dead. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I thought I didn't take the chance to try and help you out."

Ratchet sighed again, staring at the camcorder before looking down at himself again, still depressed. "How do you know all this stuff, anyway? I thought you only worked in porn."

"I'm a journalist first, Ratchet." Staccato rolled his eyes, glancing down at him. "I used to film veterans all the time before I met Sonata. You wouldn't be the first Lombax to have problems like this, and I've done enough research to know about this stuff enough to want to help you." He reached a hand out, scratching Ratchet just underneath an earlobe, getting the Lombax to purr on camera and echo a brief smile. "You've helped my planet enough times, and I'd like to return the favor."

Ratchet purred in his throat, blinking as he looked up at Staccato, reflexively angling his hips up as Staccato kept scratching behind his ear. "More . . ." Ratchet moaned, now feeling a distinct quickening within him.

"Shh." Staccato smiled, pulling his hand back. "We'll take a few more minutes to let you rest before we get started. Just relax and try to get comfortable; there'll be plenty of time to feel all the other ways later."