A/N: This will be my first attempt at writing a story for Starfox. I've felt the makings of a story just out of reach for a while now, but recently it all just came together, and, well, here we are. I currently have two other stories I'm working on, so regular updates on this one won't begin for a little while. Consider this chapter a preview of things to come.

For those unfamiliar with my update schedule, I generally try to get a new chapter up every week to two weeks, barring unforeseen hurricanes/power outage/lethargy. The end. The beginning. Enjoy.

Obligatory Hypocritical Disclaimer: Starfox does not belong to me; if you do not understand the meaning of fanfiction then this may come as a shock to you.

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FLIGHT

Chapter One

Dawn trails its fingers over the planet Corneria. touching the fields and treetops gently through a veil of mist. Golden light refracts through water droplets on the window pane, casting tiny rainbows over the walls of the room. Inside, in a bed tucked away from the light on the other side of the room, someone stirs.

The fox opens one eye blearily. He squints at the glowing face of his alarm clock, trying to decipher the numerals. Then he grunts and closes his eyes again, determined to savor his last few minutes of sleep before the alarm goes off. A few moments of blissful quiet go by, broken only by the sound of his own steady breathing and something rattling downstairs. A thought slowly works its way from the back of his mind out into the open, and his eyes snap open suddenly. Shit! My lab report!

Fox McCloud pushes himself upright, his mind returning from whatever state of warm obliviousness it had previously been enjoying. He groans aloud, remembering the homework assignment he was supposed to have completed the night before. Bill's going to kill me, he thinks glumly. Hell, Mr. Gordon is gonna kill both of us. I hope Bill at least did his half. Reluctantly putting his feet down on the freezing bare wood floor, he rises and pads over to the window.

Outside the glass the early morning sunlight cuts through last night's mist, turning the grass and the needles of the pines outside a glittering gold. He smiles a little despite his situation. Maybe I won't take the bus today. It's not so bad outside.

…

It really isn't so bad, and as Fox zips up his jacket and steps out into the mid-May air he finds himself glad that he passed up the bus this morning. There's a faint breeze, and it tousles his fur as he sets off over the first low hill.

The high school he's headed to this morning isn't particularly large, and the teachers who come in every day to earn their paychecks aren't any more competent than the ones at any other school, but neither of those things matter much to Fox. There's one thing that makes school worth showing up to each morning: Flight Initiative. Flight Initiative, or just FI as everybody without a pole up their ass calls it, was the brainchild of some war veteran who had been able to see that a good number of kids went through school with the sole purpose of heading on the the Corneria Flight Academy, and as such didn't give half a damn about calculus or what an endoplasmic reticulum was. This unnamed veteran had also realized that four years is a long time to put up with bullshit you don't care about so that you can do something you really don't know anything about. What they needed, he decided, was one period a day, a few times a week, where the rest of their time at school was made to seem more worthwhile. They needed a class where they could feel like they were making progress toward a goal they actually cared about, and becoming more prepared for the Academy during the progress. That was how the FI was born.

Sure, you don't get to actually fly, but it's the next best thing as far as Fox is concerned. In FI you learn how an Arwing works inside and out. You learn the layout of the cockpit, the intricacies of thrust and drag, and get at least a vague idea of how not to kill yourself on your first real flight. More than that, you learn military protocol, tactics and strategy, and get an idea of different positions available to cadets after the Academy.

Fox runs over his schedule in his mind. Math, chemistry—shit—history, literature, lunch, and FI is last. Maybe I can do my report during math. Maybe I'll have time before class starts. Fox sighs, cresting the hill and starting down the slope, his paws sinking into the dew-laden grass. He reaches into his pocket, retrieving his music player and earphones. He screws the buds into his ears, flicking through his music library as the grass turns into pine forest around him. He slips the mp3 player back into his pocket, breathing in the damp, spicy scent of pine needles as the opening bars of the song reverberate in his ears. Soon he's floating, lost in the churning guitar and pounding drums, the cool air on his face and the smell of the trees blending together as he strides on toward school, the unwritten lab report forgotten once more.

…

Fox's reverie is broken as something hits him from behind, nearly knocking him over. He gives a cry of alarm, twisting around to see a face full of pointy teeth grinning back at him. Fox readjusts his backpack, trying to regain his composure as he scowls at the smiling face. "It's you," he says by way of greeting. "I should have known."

"Yup," says the canine, falling into step beside him. "That's me. A fact of life."

"You're more like a natural danger, Wolf O'Donnel," says Fox, finding himself unable to stay aggravated.

"Smoking," replies Wolf unabashedly, holding up a lit cigarette. He gives Fox a questioning look.

"No thanks," says Fox, eying the dubious-looking paper roll. "Is that even tobaco in there?"

"Maybe," says Wolf, giving Fox what he must think is a devilish grin.

Fox shakes his head, smiling back despite himself. That's Wolf for you. Sometimes he takes his not-a-care-in-the-world shtick too far and it gets him and everyone around him in deep shit, but most of time he's just, well, Wolf.

"Just thought I'd enjoy the morning," continues the canine. He reaches over and plucks the earbud out of Fox's ear, sticking it into his own. "Did you do the chem homework?"

"No," says Fox. "And I bet you didn't either. I almost feel bad for Slippy. He ought to get some kind of medal for being your lab partner."

"Ahh, he needs to loosen up," says Wolf dismissively. "Hey, is this the new Fifth Era album?"

Fox nods. "Yeah, I downloaded it the other night. Do you have it yet?"

"Nope. It's good though. You should make me a copy."

Fox rolls his eyes. He is forever making Wolf copies of records that his friend refuses to actually buy for some reason. "Fine," he says. "But I don't know how you're going to get music when I'm not around anymore."

"What, you going somewhere?" asks Wolf jokingly.

Yeah, and you're not, thinks Fox. He instantly feels bad for the thought, especially since he knows it's probably true. Wolf's chances of getting into the academy don't look good right now, and Fox knows that like him his friend dreams of being a pilot someday. He pushes the thought away, saying instead: "All I'm saying is, if you don't see me in FI today check Mrs. Ernst's room for my body. We're doing plays again in lit today."

…

Math class passes painfully slowly. Fox sits slumped forward with his chin resting on his hands as his teacher carries on and on about the importance of double-checking work, which morphs into a lecture about minimums and maximums. The formulas and terms fill Fox's head but refuse to assemble themselves into any sort of rational order, instead milling around and around until he stops listening all together, hopelessly confused. The second hand slides down from the twelve to the three, putting on the brakes as it nears the six and then, finding itself unable to regain its momentum, resigns itself to a hard struggle back up to the nine, seeming near the point of collapse as it reaches to twelve and with relief begins the downhill stretch again.

Fox watches the clock hands move with near-hypnosis, his mind full of fuzzy static that breaks at the sound of the bell, just in time for his ears to pick up "-and the quiz will be on Tuesday, or perhaps Wednesday, so be sure to study your notes!" Fox looks down at his blank notebook page and then sighs in resignation, throwing his things into his bag and squeezing out into the throng of students in the hallway.

He makes it to his next class without being trampled or mugged, which is a good start by his standards, and sinks into his seat at the table next to his friend Bill.

"You didn't write your half of the report, did you?" asks Bill as Fox takes his seat.

"No," replies Fox, laying his head down on the table. "Sorry, it just didn't happen. I meant to, but..."

"I know," reassures the gray-furred canine. "I didn't do mine either. There was a big cageball game on last night."

"Was there?" asks Fox absent-mindedly. He seems to remember someone mentioning it to him.

"You're kidding, right? It was the regional finals! Everybody was watching it."

"Even Wolf?"

"That's different," Bill scowls. "I don't think Wolf has a TV."

"What about Slippy?"

"That doesn't count either! Come on Fox, don't tell me you didn't at least see some of it."

Fox shrugs apathetically. He's saved from having to think of a further response when their teacher, Mr. Gordon, clears his throat loudly at the front of the room. "Everybody sit down! Who's absent today?"

"Me!" calls out a wise-ass from the back of the room, whom everyone ignores.

"Slippy," says Mr. Gordon, his eyes scanning the room and stopping at an empty seat next to a nervous-looking amphibian. "Where's you lab partner?"

"I—I don't know," squeaks Slippy. "He was supposed to have the other half of our lab report, but I haven't seen him all day." The young toad looks near tears.

"Alright, alright," placates Mr. Gordon. "Settle down, if he's not here he's not—"

The door swings open and a wolf in gray khakis and a ragged bomber jacket swaggers inside. "Morning," he says nonchalantly, kicking the door shut with his foot and sliding into the seat beside Slippy.

"Wolf," Fox hears Slippy whisper extremely loudly. "Where were you? Do you have the report?"

Wolf offers Slippy a beatific smile. "Nope!" he says happily.

"Wolf!" wails Slippy. "It was homework! You have to do it!"

Fox turns away, dropping his head back to the tabletop to hide his amusement. Poor Slippy, he thinks as their teacher attempts to collect the reports. The rest of the class goes by at its usual snail's pace as Mr. Gordon tries his best to get a bunch of teenagers to care about writing equations for polyatomic atoms. Fox tries, but the class passes in a blur of subscripts and suffixes and positive and negative charges, leaving him just as mystified as he was at its start. As the bell rings and the class begins to file out he turns to Bill, a pleading expression on his face. "Please tell me you understood any of that," he says.

The canine shrugs. "Something about electrons?"

"This is hopeless," complains Fox, pulling himself out of the chair. "What are we going to do when we have a test?"

"Fail," offers Bill helpfully.

"That's great," says Fox. "My uncle will love that. Do you think I should tell him my plan now, or let it surprise him?"

"I'm going for surprise. My mom doesn't jog much anymore. Seeing a few F's on my report card will be good cardio for her."

…

Lunch beckons like an island on the horizon, and when it finally comes Fox is so relieved he nearly leaves his bag behind. The previous day's clouds have returned, and there's a chill in the air that drives most of the students inside for lunch. Fox and his friends make for their usual table, and Fox takes his usual seat, looking out the window into the wooded lot that surrounds the back of the school. He half listens as Slippy berates Wolf over the missing assignment and Bill goes on and on about the cageball match, his thoughts elsewhere. The clouds are beginning to darken outside, and Fox thinks he can sense rain coming. Maybe even a storm. He frowns, catching a glimpse of blue out of the corner of his eye. Craning his neck for a better look, he notices a jacketed figure, an avian with eye-catching blue feathers seated in the grass with his back against a tree a good distance away from the school. He elbows Bill, interrupting an anecdote on teams that don't use their goal keepers effectively. "Hey, you see that guy out there?"

Bill raises his head, and Fox turns back to the window just in time to see the figure disappear around the corner of the building. "Who, the bird?" asks Bill. "Does he go to school here?"

"I don't know," says Fox. "I've never seen him before."

Bill shrugs disinterestedly, turning back to Wolf, who had been pretending to listen to his cageball story. Fox's eyes linger on the window a moment longer. He wonders who the mysterious avian was, and then he wonders why he's interested. This school's not that small, he reminds himself. There are lots of kids here I don't know by sight. Well, maybe not lots. A few, at least. Still, he's unable to dispel a sense of vague curiosity, which sticks with him throughout the rest of the lunch period.

…