As a month or two went by, Chase coordinated his meetups with Rocky into a regular occurrence. They met twice a week, walking off from the degraded shadow of The Lookout. Chase had yet to get Rocky into opening up, what the mix really needed was an opportunity to vent his feelings. Unfortunately, directly asking him to unlock his inner thoughts was only met with discomfort and irritation, so Chase decided to take it slow. Seeing one of his closest friends in such pain nearly broke his heart, and he was willing to do anything to get Rocky feeling better.

Other days, he had been discreetly meeting with Katie for medical advice. Katie printed out extensive research papers all covering the same topic: mental disorders. He was sure Rocky had something in his head, something that chained him up inside. Depression was obvious, that one at least was narrowed down. Even then, Chase wanted to be respectful to the mix and not immediately claim he "solved" him. He didn't seek to fix Rocky, but the inner desire to help him was blocked by a lack of understanding.

But there was something else that dwelled in his mind, a certain event that seemed stapled into his brain. The kiss. Weeks ago, Rocky kissed him in the Lookout, seemingly being driven under a fractured mind. Instinctively, Chase recoiled back and pushed Rocky off, but there was no going back now. The feeling, the pressure of Rocky's lips was lingering on his own. Despite trying to play it off, his mind was swirling in confusion. Was Rocky gay? Was he gay now? What did this mean, what did anything mean? During one visit, Katie found something from her files and laid them out on a table. She walked over to Chase and picked him up off the floor so he could see, holding him over the table. Looking down, the Shepherd read the first paper in the very middle, with one long word at the top.

Schizophrenia. Not exactly an exact link to Rocky, but worth looking into.

Most of the following meetups usually went the same way. Chase took Rocky on a walk in the forest, talking and chatting about anything they could think of. Every now and then Chase would sneak in a deeper question, once again attempting to dent Rocky's shell. None were ever answered though, the mix merely shrugged. Despite the shortcomings, Rocky was finally opening up in other ways. He seemed less shy and secluded, growing more comfortable every moment he spent around the Shepherd, although he hadn't laughed even once yet. In the fourth week, Rocky let a smile slip during a conversation about nature conservation. Small progress was better than none, and Chase couldn't help feeling a warm sunny feeling in his own heart. Something about Rocky just brought a feeling of bliss to him, and at one point he caught himself gazing at the grey mix.

It was a cool morning, the familiar smells of wet grass and worms filling a dog's nose. Rocky sat at his workstation within his kennel, anxiously tapping his paw on its surface. In front of him on the wooden table laid a disemboweled radio. He was determined to fix the old thing, for months he'd been unable to hone his craft for engineering. He had no idea why, out of nowhere his abilities seemed to rust. The shell was taken apart, its screws and wiring laid around its corpse. The speaker was slightly hanging out like its life was slowly being sapped away. Rocky narrowed his eyes at the disassembled mess, trying to focus on the green circuit boards that he had carefully pulled out.

"No, no no," he repeated, gritting his teeth, "what's wrong with you?" Barking a command, the pup pack strapped to his back opened up and extended a thin screwdriver. Carefully turning the tool, he disconnected the small screws and removed a small processer from the circuit. Holding it up to his face, he squinted at the tiny machine, determined to find what it was that fried the radio. He'd been at for hours, nearly taking apart the thing right down to the frame, yet he still couldn't find the problem.

"No," he gave a low growl, "just show me, you worthless piece of garbage!"

The processor was in perfect condition, not the culprit for the appliance's malfunction. Everything looked perfect, nothing about it made sense. If it was perfect, then it should work.

"You… fucking, worthless," Rocky begin to snarl, "pile of trash! I should be able to do this, what's wrong with me?!"

Rearing backward, Rocky shook his head in frustration. It was stupid, all a plain mockery that was this confounded radio. Everything was out to get him, obviously, everyone and everything. The mix opened his eyes, trying to make sense of the trash in front of him, but his eyes widened as the anger instantly left him, and was replaced with utter horror. The radio was gone, in its place was a beautiful dove with a ripped-open stomach. Blood leaked out from the open carcass and leeched down onto the floor.

Rocky couldn't speak, caught like a deer in headlights at the horror before him. The dove gently moved its head up to the dog, pleading with its eyes to be put to death. "No, no," Rocky suddenly panicked, streaming forward to his workstation, "wait, hold on," he put a paw over the bird's stomach, trying to hold it close, as his heartbeat quickened, "I think I have something-" he darted his gaze in every direction, trying to find a tool, a bandage, staples, anything, "please, don't die," the mix pleaded, tears streaming from his eyes, "please!"

The dove opened its frail beak and screamed out an ear-piercing wail. Rocky's vision went static as he stumbled backward, hitting the wall and sending tools off the shelves and crashing to the floor. The walls began to bleed over, dark feathers falling like snowflakes from the ceiling.

"No!" he wailed, covering his face,

"Don't be a fucking wimp, Rocks" Dakota sneered,

"Huh?" Rocky looked up through the tears, and the air around him grew hot. Barely flicking his eyes around, he realized he was no longer in his kennel. He suddenly felt a lot smaller than usual.

"It's a bird, so what?" his brother tilted his head, "it's food, eat it."

The beautiful dove helplessly squirmed under Dakota's paw, trying to desperately flee with its life.

"But, look at it," Rocky sniffed, "it's so pretty,"

"It's just a bird," Dakota growled, "what kind of dog are you?"

"No, let's back to the trash cans!" Rocky pleaded, "you don't even have to! I'll do it! I'll check every single one!"

"Rocks, this is fresh meat, not trash thrown out by people," the larger dog said firmly, "you need to learn. Things have to die so you can live!"

"Dakota, please!" Rocky cried,

In that instant, Dakota shifted his weight to his paw, snapping the bird's neck. The soft grey feathers fell still, and Rocky felt his heart shatter around him. The bird was dead. A harmless, beloved creature that once soared through skies, now snapped under Dakota's paw. Rocky was breathless, his lips beginning to quiver as his tears increased, now on the verge of crying.

"You had to learn at some point," his brother's tone softened, "here, I'll pluck it. You can have the first bite."

Rocky shook his head in denial, and the world around him suddenly fractured to pieces. The colors of the brick and metal bled into a blinding storm of lights and flashes, endless screams and howls deafening his ears. He felt like he was falling, and all he ever wanted to do now was scream. Feeling himself land on a hard surface, Rocky jolted as a paw was punched into his side.

"Hey!" Zuma snarled,

Rocky shot open his eyes, still wet from crying. Looking around in fear, he realized he was sitting right in the clearing before the Lookout. He had seemingly left his kennel, and he turned back to look inside his home. He could clearly see tools scattered on the floor, along with the radio that was still in pieces on his wooden table. His pup pack was sitting abandoned on the floor, also tossed aside.

"The hell are you doing?" Zuma questioned, "you're just sitting out here staring into space, what is wrong with you?"

"Sorry," Rocky shook his head, "I'm sorry I, I think I- … sorry," he tried to retreat back to his kennel, but he felt Zuma's teeth snap into his tail, yanking him back into the grass.

"You don't fucking turn away when I'm talking to you!" the Lab snarled, baring his teeth, "next time stay in your kennel and don't come out!"

The mix looked away in shame, trying to make himself as small as possible. Zuma walked over to him, putting his front paws at Rocky's size so he was looming right over him, directly staring down into the mix.

"Look at you," Zuma said dismissively, "why are you even here? Why make yourself a target? He cocked his head, raising an eyebrow, "do you like being attacked like this?"

Rocky could only mumble a fearful response.

Zuma gave a smug grin, "I bet you do. I bet you love being manhandled like this," he leaned his head down a little, their noses inches apart, "all fags do." He gave a dark laugh, then stopped off of Rocky, starting to walk off, "pray I don't see you outside again, mutt."

Rocky stayed lying in the grass for several minutes, trying to get his breathing in order. The horrific hallucination he suffered was haunting him, old memories creeping back into his head. It was no illusion, Rocky shuddered every time he remembered Dakota's brutal methods of finding food. Every time he would start moving to get up, Rocky's body seemed to fail on him, and he just decided to lay in the grass for even longer.

He was suddenly met with lovely brown eyes looking down at him, "doing some sunbathing?" Chase smiled curiously, carrying a fabric bag in his mouth.

"Something like that," Rocky looked to the side, too ashamed to meet Chase's gaze,

"But how do you sunbathe when you're covered in fur?" asked the Shepherd,

"I just do," the mix quickly collected himself and stood up, "what's up?"

"I wanted to bring you something, can we go in your kennel?" Chase wagged his tail,

"It's kind of a mess in there…"

"Ha! It's probably nothing compared to mine," laughed the police dog, walking into the green den. Rocky sighed and followed him in.

"Still tinkering with the radio?" the Shepherd sniffed the small pieces,

"Something like that, what did you bring me?"

Chase gripped the string that held the back closed and pulled it with his teeth. The small package unraveled and fell flat, revealing a familiar electronic tablet.

"Ryder's Pup pad?" Rocky raised an eyebrow,

"Marshall broke it, can you believe that?" Chase laughed, "accidentally stepped on it, it was hilarious,"

Rocky walked up to the broken electronic and looked it over, sniffing it a few times. The screen was clearly smashed in the center, but the screens could be replaced. If it wasn't turning on, then there was internal damage for sure. Possibly broken circuit boards, or some other piece inside getting crushed.

"That is kinda funny, actually," Rocky gently chuckled, "but why are you bringing it to me?"

"Well, Ryder said it was garbage, and he'd have to order another one," the Shepherd explained, "he threw it to me and said to throw it away, but then I got an idea!" his tail wagged excitedly, "I could bring it to you, and you could fix it!"

The mix flattened his ears, "why would I do that?"

"Because imagine their faces," Chase pulled a mischievous grin, "when you show just how useful you really are,"

The grey mix realized his crush's intentions and frowned, looking away, "sorry, but I can't."

"Wha- why not?"

"Chase, I can't even fix a fucking radio, how can I repair something as high-tech as this?"

"The radio?" Chase raised an eyebrow, then looked back at the table, "what's wrong with it? Looks mostly in pieces to me."

"I can't find the problem," the mix explained in frustration, "every single damn piece of that thing is utterly perfect, it makes no sense."

Looking back at the mechanical bits and pieces, Chase shrugged, "maybe the problem isn't with the hardware? Sometimes the answers to things aren't always obvious,"

"Whatever," Rocky waved off, "I'll look at the stupid pad." Chase broke into a large smile and went over to grab the broken equipment, "but don't expect a positive outcome," the mix added.

Gently moving the radio pieces aside, the pad was placed at the center of the table. Sighing, Rocky produced a tiny screwdriver and went to work. Chase walked over to Rocky's bed and moved in a circle a few times before lying down. He wanted to watch Rocky's work, making sure to stay as quiet as possible. Looking up after a few minutes, Chase noticed that his friend had spots of dirt lingering in his grey fur. No doubt from being on the ground, but it almost seemed like a brute force had been involved, given how dusty Rocky was.

Casually displacing the screen, Rocky scanned his eyes around the interior of the machine. The circuit boards looked fine and the wires were okay, so it was likely something smaller that broke on the impact. Narrowing his eyes and focusing, his gaze landed on a small cube no less the size of a dime. It was broken, visibly dented with clear damage. Clearly the main component of some sort, Rocky disconnected the battery and got to work on removing the piece. He was snapped out of his focus when a wet tongue slid up his ear, causing him to freeze in place.

"Chase?" Rocky asked, blushing deeply,

"Your ear is dirty," replied the Shepherd, "so is a lot more of you actually," he continued to run his warm tongue along Rocky's ear, causing shudders to echo through the mix. He was blushing uncontrollably, and suddenly spoke without realizing, "can I do you after?"

Chase laughed, "no thanks, I finished cleaning myself a few hours ago," it was utterly impossible for Rocky to focus like this, he had to get Chase off before something undesirable happened.

"Can you get in that drawer for me?" Rocky asked nervously, pointing to a small compartment, "there should be an old Pup pad in there from years ago, I think I can swap the pieces,"

"You have an old Pup pad?" Chase asked, walking over to it and pulling it open, "where's you get this?"

"Ryder gave it to me a while back," the mix sighed, "before he realized I was a mutt,"

The dogs fell silent, Rocky silently working while Chase's concerns only grew. If he really could, the Shepherd would bark some sense into his friends, he just wanted to see Rocky happy. He'd tear someone to pieces if it meant saving someone he cared about.

"So, how's the murder case thing?" asked the mix, taking the pad from his crush, "all those dead strays?"

"No leads yet," Chase returned to the bed, "Everest hasn't returned any of my calls, and public complaints are piling up. The beach, for example, has really been building up with litter."

"Because a dirty beach is so much worse than serial murders," Rocky said sarcastically,

"You know people, they love complaining," the police dog perked up, "why don't I take you to the beach tomorrow?"

"You know I hate water,"

"Not to swim, to clean," Chase brightened, "you're our Eco Dog, and the world needs you, Rocky!" The mix merely shrugged in response. He'd go to the ends of the world if it meant Chase would be there, but this was something else. Months of being villainized, and now he's suddenly wanted back for the sole purpose of cleaning a beach? Typical.

After quite some time, Rocky swapped the pieces to the pad and handed it back to Chase, half not even believing he was capable of fixing something. He'd be proven wrong as the Shepherd flipped the switch and the tablet flared to life, "you did it!" Chase bounced, glowing with pride, and Rocky help but faintly smile.

"It wasn't too difficult though, I just-"

"No, hush," Chase turned, holding up his paw, "I'm taking this to Ryder, and he's gonna know that you fixed it." Repackaging the tablet in the bag, he gripped it in his teeth and ran out. He wasn't used to hearing affirmation nor did he hear much at all, so hearing that rare praise from Chase of all dogs made him a little less cold inside.

That night, Rocky found himself staring at the radio again. He had barely left the kennel all day, and bedtime was nearing. Giving the contraption a final shrug, he turned to his bed to lay down for the night. Before he could settle, he heard his kennel door open.

"Chase?" Rocky asked without looking up,

"Guess again," came the slithering voice of a chocolate Lab.

The mix's heart sunk inside, fear creeping up his spine as he heard Zuma walk in, shutting the door behind him.

"You should clean up this dump," Zuma muttered, looking around, "I thought that was your thing,"

"I'm working on it-"

"Shut up," Zuma growled, coming forward in Rocky's face, "now lie back,"

"What?"

Zuma suddenly shot his paw forward, shoving Rocky forcefully backward onto the bed. Instinctively, the mix went limp, knowing fighting back would only make things worse. His mind had seemingly broken, slicing out his critical thinking and reducing him to a helpless overturned turtle. He felt a shiver rise up his spine as Zuma suddenly pressed his nose into Rocky's grey chest, deeply taking in his scent.

"What- are you doing?" Rocky asked nervously,

"Quiet," growled the Lab, and the mix sealed his mouth,

His breathing quivered as Zuma made way to his neck, slightly nipping at the sensitive skin, "so you think you can just outshine us? You fix one Pup pad, and that makes you the star of the team?"

"I didn't-"

"Shut up," Zuma cut him off as he moved on top of the other dog, "I know what you're trying to do, someone needs to remind you who's in charge."

Rocky felt unable to move, shaking under the larger Lab as silky fur brushed against his own rough coat.

"So let me show you," Zuma grinned darkly, "it'll be better for you if you don't speak, or do anything really. You deserve it, after all, all mutts do."

No use arguing with that logic. Rocky merely breathed out and laid back, letting his limbs relax while Zuma went to work on him. As the Lab firmly gripped the mix's neck with his teeth, Rocky submitted himself to him.