The Three Musketeers - 5. Chapter 1 (5/5)

By the time they threw me back behind the bars, the spotted dog was already awake, curled up in the corner like a bundle of misery.

I pushed myself upright with a struggle, careful to avoid any sudden movement that might tug at my throbbing ribs or worsen the nausea that was only just beginning to subside.

Lightly brushing my limbs through my fur, I checked for anything that felt broken.

“Damn it...” I muttered under my breath as fresh blood dripped from the tip of my muzzle onto my chest. Tilting my head back, I wiped at the nosebleed that wouldn’t stop.

“You should lean forward and pinch the bridge of your nose,” the spotted dog said.

I thought I heard him shift as he spoke.

“Shut up,” I snapped. Hard to be polite when it was clearly his fault I was in this mess.

“Save your strength. You’ll need it.” He pressed down on my snout, pinching my nostrils shut with one paw while the other gently swept across my cheek toward my nose. A few spots stung sharply, and I hissed through my teeth. “Nothing’s broken, though. Guess they’re going a little easier lately.”

As much as I wanted nothing to do with this guy, he clearly knew how to handle a nosebleed, so I had little choice but to let him help me.

“Are you cold?” he asked, leaning in to check my eyes. Up close, the swelling around his blackened eye was even more grotesque.

“It’s cursed November, I’ve been stripped naked and thrown into a concrete pit with iron bars. What the hell do you think?” Whatever shred of courtesy I had left had already been beaten out of me by those two golden retrievers who didn’t seem to speak a word of rational language.

“I’m checking for brain damage,” he said, somehow managing a laugh. “And ease up on the attitude. You’re blaming the wrong guy.”

“Oh yeah? Then who else should I blame? That circuit board—when the hell did you put it on me? And why drag me into this? I want nothing to do with you bomb-happy lunatics.” I spat bloodied saliva onto the floor, hoping to make my disgust crystal clear. “And yes, I’m freezing.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept pressing against my muzzle until the bleeding stopped.

I figured he assumed we were being listened to—probably why he wasn’t responding to any of my questions.

He kept probing around my head like he was checking for something.

“Try to sleep a little. While you still can,” he said eventually, satisfied I wasn’t in immediate danger. He crawled back to the corner where he’d been curled up.
“I don’t want to scare you, but… things only escalate from here. If you don’t want to freeze to death, I suggest we share body heat.”

“What the hell are you talking about? No way!” I growled, curling up and wrapping my tail around myself.

“Like I said—save your strength. When they start blasting us with cold water, we won’t even have that option.” He said it like he was reciting a weather report—calm and completely detached.

I stubbornly huddled in the farthest corner from him. But the cold concrete floor and walls sapped my warmth with ruthless efficiency. After just a few minutes, I gave up trying to prove a point.

Back to back, we leaned against each other. Our breathing shifted our bodies, fur brushing together with soft rustles.

I forced myself to clear my mind, to stop thinking about how we were both stark naked, how this bastard had not only robbed me but set me up—anything that would make this more awkward, just focus on getting warm.

“Jealous of species with long fur,” he muttered, turning around and hugging me before I realized what he was doing. Our chests pressed together. “So warm.”

“Wha—?” Every hair on my body stood up. Because it was just too awkward, I squirmed a little, trying to keep some distance—but the spotted dog actually took it a step further, grabbing my tail and wrapping us together.

“They’re listening. But this volume is safe,” he whispered into my ear, snout buried in my neck. “Don’t be so tense. Acting weird will draw suspicion.”

Realizing how rigid I was, I adjusted my posture slightly, trying to relax.

“Much better,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I didn’t realize they were that close—it was my mistake. But it’s too late to dwell on that now. Focus on what we can still control.” He nudged my shoulder. “For security reasons, I can’t tell you more. The less you know, the less you might accidentally reveal. But for now, time is on our side. If they can’t figure out why that circuit board’s here, they won’t risk calling in Count Smith. And the longer we stall, the better our chances of being rescued.”

“How long?” Given how the ‘interrogation’ went earlier, I knew pressing for more info would only make things worse. But I still needed something—anything—to hold onto. If I truly hadn’t known absolutely nothing about the whole thing, just getting beaten until I was seeing stars would’ve been enough to make me spill everything just to make them stop. I didn’t even want to imagine what “escalate” would mean.

“Don’t dwell on it,” he said quietly. “Did you notice the clock in the interrogation room? They’ve deliberately slowed it down—to mess with your sense of time and build psychological pressure.”

“Oh…” I murmured, starting to wonder if my stress levels had already maxed out. I didn’t even feel like they could get worse.

“Alright. If you don’t have more questions, it might be time to give them a little something,” he said, though the meaning didn’t quite land for me. “It helps relieve pressure and delays their decision to isolate us,” he explained with a trace of hesitation. “Trust me—solitary is rough.”

“So…give them what?” The spotted dog looked like he had plenty of experience—I could only conclude he’d been arrested more than a few times. Did that mean this guy was a career criminal?

“Let’s start simple,” he exhaled through his nose, pulling back a little. “So… fire fox of the Viera House, huh? You were so filthy, I didn’t notice at first.” His voice returned to a normal volume, with a hint of teasing. “What should I call you?”

“Zorro,” I said, holding on to a sliver of hope that the crazed golden retrievers might actually check my identity and realize they’d nabbed the wrong guy.

“Ha! Your parents had a sense of humor.” I rolled my eyes at his grin. “You can call me Porthos.”

I didn’t even mean to laugh, but it slipped out.

“And you're mocking my parents' taste on top of that?” I couldn’t tell if Porthos was his real name, but it sounded too ridiculous not to laugh at. “Who names themselves like they’re in a cosplay troupe—or a diehard Three Musketeers fan…”

That’s when it hit me.

Three Musketeers.

A spotted dog with black spots.

Porthos.

Terrorist.

No way.

“The Three Musketeers...” I murmured, and he raised an eyebrow. “That group known during the war for rescuing carnivores from concentration camps. Smuggled them out of the country or hid them in safehouses. Rumored to have helped over a hundred thousand escape. A legendary resistance. But after the war, they suddenly started targeting public infrastructure. Now they’re branded terrorists by every faction in Gaia.” As I gave my statement, the corners of the spotted dog’s mouth curled into a slow, satisfied smile. He didn’t correct or deny a word. "Oh my god, it really is..."

“Hundred thousand’s an exaggeration. The math’s bogus. We saved maybe ten thousand, tops,” Porthos said with a soft chuckle, but beneath it, I heard something bitter.

"But… how did it end up like this, turning into terrorists attacking critical infrastructure?" I had always lived in a safe zone far from the frontlines, but even just catching fragments of related news was terrifying enough. So when I learned that there was such a group working hard to rescue victims trapped in concentration camps, I always had a kind of hero-worshiping fantasy about them. Even when, more recently, news began to emerge about various factions labeling the Three Musketeers as a terrorist organization, I still didn’t think much of it, simply dismissing it as rumors born from the current chaotic situation, following the same logic as the millions of fake and fabricated messages circulating online. But during my conversation with Porthos, his attitude confirmed for me that they really did have to take responsibility for those attacks. "The airport… was that your doing?"

"Yes," Porthos replied directly, with no intention of denying it.

“Why?” My voice shot up, I couldn’t stop it.

If the airport hadn’t been shut down, my biggest concern right now would be whether I ate too many hors d’oeuvres—not whether I’d piss myself if they started ripping out my nails.

They say never meet your heroes. I was starting to understand why.

“Golden House’s Security around the airport was too tight. Blowing up the cargo plane was the only way to stop the handoff,” Porthos replied—like that was the part I wanted explained.

" What are you talking about?" I asked, full of frustration, barely able to keep myself from yelling out in embarrassment. "I’m asking why—why did you go from rescuing victims to bombing civilians? From heroes to terrorists?" I challenged him, trying to meet Porthos’ gaze, but the spotted dog tugged at my fur to hold me back. He didn’t answer right away, staying silent, but I noticed Borthos’s fist clenching tightly around my fur.

“Because nothing changed.” He whispered it, barely audible even with his snout right beside my ear.

This time, I gave up on asking—because I honestly couldn’t figure out how to approach it in a way that might lead to a clearer answer. And more than that—his tone had changed.

After a long pause, Porthos’ body slowly relaxed, and he let out a deep breath.

“You’re probably too young to remember life before the species segregation laws,” he said quietly, voice distant. “It was only, what, twenty-something years ago?”

My tutors had been thorough. Even without living through it, I knew how much those years had shaped Gaia.

"From the growing tensions between herbivores and carnivores, the implementation of segregation policies, the closure of borders, and eventually the all-out war sparked by the Crystal Night—none of it came out of nowhere. The signs were there. History has a way of repeating itself." The spotted dog rubbed his snout with the back of his hand, brushing off some brownish fragments. "When things started escalating, we didn’t feel much of anything, to be honest. It’s not like the territories under the Golden House were ever all peace and harmony. Most of us were too busy surviving to spare much thought for others." He snorted, the sound thick with nasal heaviness. "But when the concentration camps started appearing in an organized fashion, and after the official declaration of war—that’s when things changed." Porthos slowly released me and stepped back a little, letting me see the conflicted expression on his face. "Athos gathered us together. A bunch of young, brave, and foolish pups who didn’t know better." He let out a quiet laugh, the tension in his features easing.

"I’ve read about what you did," I said, recalling the reports. "Liberating camps behind enemy lines... that takes more than just bravery or foolishness."

"Of course it does," Porthos chuckled, amused by my earnestness. "If you're picturing us storming into camps under cover of night, scaling barbed-wire fences and blowing up walls—well, you might want to adjust that mental image."

I tilted my head, giving him a puzzled look, unsure what he meant.

“Of course I’m not saying we’d never launch a night raid on a concentration camp or anything like that,” the spotted dog explained for me, “but that only happens in the most extreme cases. We don’t have the resources or manpower to do it often. Without thorough planning and a clear guarantee of overwhelming advantage, attacking a camp directly would only put the detainees at far greater risk. And that’s not even considering what comes after—how we’d shelter and relocate the people we manage to rescue.” It was only after his explanation that I realized just how naïve my heroism-fueled fantasies had been. "Our usual work was contacting wartime sympathizers among herbivores, helping them relocate individuals they could no longer hide, smuggling them out through tunnels or boats. That’s how about eighty percent of the rescues happened."

I didn’t know how to respond. The reality hit harder than I expected.

Maybe my surprise was too obvious, because Porthos let out a soft laugh and shook his head. "Not quite as heroic-sounding, huh?"

"No... it’s still unimaginably brave," I said, snapping out of it and speaking from the heart. "It’s just—I didn’t think herbivores..."

"Exactly," Porthos said quietly. "Most people, when faced with evil they can't fight, just freeze or don’t know how to respond. They just need a reminder—someone to show them what’s possible."

"That’s not quite what the Milgram obedience experiments concluded, though," I pointed out. His take felt overly optimistic—but then again, who was I to say otherwise?

"It’s not so different, actually. Milgram experiments showed us that authority has power over people. So the real question is—why can’t our voices be that authority? The voice that watches us, expects more of us, urges us to act better." Porthos’ voice was almost gentle now, far from the roughness I’d first associated with him.

Only then did I realize how different this version of him was from the brash impression he'd initially given me. Maybe years of covert work had trained him to act, to put on masks. Which version of him was the real one?

"And it wasn’t just herbivores, we had help from others too—including foxes who managed the camps." he added, tone neutral, but the weight of what he said next made my ears perk up.

"What?" I’d at least heard of sympathizers among herbivores, but as a fox myself, I’d never once heard of any foxes helping prisoners escape from those camps.

"Surprising, right? But it makes sense. Creating fear, hate, and a common enemy—that’s how unstable regimes stabilize themselves," Porthos said, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. "And I’m guessing you’ve never read any reports about us smuggling herbivores off Gaia on starships either, have you?"

I could only shake my head, ashamed of my ignorance.

"Don’t feel guilty. I doubt anyone besides us even knows." A slight smirk tugged at his mouth. "So when the purges began—when carnivores who’d sided with herbivores were being targeted—we tried to explain to the rage-blinded masses who the real allies were. But sometimes... we were too late."

He paused. I waited patiently for him to continue—not just because I had nothing else to do, but because there was something in his bitterness that struck a chord deep within me.

"It didn’t take long before we realized—ally or not, that wasn’t the point," Porthos said, opening his eyes again and speaking with renewed clarity. "No one deserves to be treated like that. It’s just wrong."

It was like a jolt of electricity ran through me—my heart skipped a beat.

"That’s why I say—nothing’s changed." Another bitter smile crossed his face. He turned his head and coughed a few times. "Sure, now our targets are the ruling canines, and the ones we’re rescuing are those who chose to side with the herbivores. But at the core, it’s always been the same." His gaze met mine, and in those brown eyes, something shone. "Extend a paw to those in need. Always."

I smoothed down the fur that had bristled along my back, letting his words sink in. Maybe there was no such thing as a "mask" or a "real version." Maybe we’re all just contradictions, complex and contradictory. Or maybe, it’s the opposite: maybe none of us are capable of acting against who we really are—and all roads lead back to the same, simple truth.

"I think I get what you’re saying... though I’ll need some time to really process it." My exhausted brain buzzed with the onset of sleep. The adrenaline and pain that had kept me awake had clearly reached their limit. "But I am curious—why did you call yourselves the ‘Three Musketeers’?" Porthos raised his right ear, clearly caught off guard by the question. "I mean, isn’t that kind of embarrassing?"

"Not at all. You haven’t heard our slogan yet." He chuckled, then gingerly rubbed his swollen eye. "When we were pups, we used to play Musketeers all the time—pretending we were sword-wielding heroes fighting for justice. Never thought we’d get the chance to actually live it one day." He traced a few strokes through the air with his finger, then said, "Don’t you think there’s something deeply romantic about fulfilling a childhood dream?"

"I do," I said, letting out a long yawn.

"Just sleep if you're tired." He placed a paw on my shoulder. "Like I told you—rest while you still can. We’ve got a long fight ahead of us."

I nodded and slowly closed my aching eyes, letting my body relax against his. I didn’t have the strength to care whether it was awkward. In this freezing environment, there was no room for such luxuries.

As I drifted toward sleep, I kept turning Porthos’ words over and over in my head, trying to untangle the storm of thoughts and feelings they had stirred up.

And just before I slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber, I could still feel the sharp edges of my family crest pin, pressed tightly into the palm of my paw.