Introduction: Burning Out
One might suppose this story is to be "kicked off", as you might say, with an eruption of flames tearing through a complex mixture of skin, fur, and metal that was anything but meant to be, or the searing light of a cohesive collection of photon silently ripping through the annals of space as they close in on their screaming targets. One might be absolutely right, though a tinge of dashing blue feathers must be added to the scene in mind to maintain the intended effect.
Although, before we dive completely into depths of hues originating from the reds, whites, and blues of a battlefield, we must take time into account like those in a slaughterhouse would and analyze this confrontation from the start, or before that, and in all dimensions available (high definition not supported). As one might imagine, the stars were about, conversing with their vast arrays of gestures, from twinkling to imploding, not aware of the strikingly obvious fixtures of wings and deadly things constructed by beings not fit enough to compose themselves, but, rather, decompose; and rapidly. After all, the stars, so very bright with all their might, were worshiped for their brilliant mockery of the gods, though, like the gods, they could be stolen from the sky with one foul swoop. Taken by surprise, these stars scrambled after the first of their numbers had been delivered to their own shining superiors and were chased mercilessly by the skilled pilots who dictated the paths of their own clunky, though noiseless, collection of bolts, reinforced steel, and death, the last of which was in more concentrated forms than you can count on one hand. One pilot in particular seemed to be especially exceptional at his job.
This pilot seemed to skillfully skate through scattered shots that leaped through the absence of air with a school child's sense of cautiousness, jumping from the first block in a game of fatal hopscotch that started at the blasters and ended with the most combustible piece of the enemy's craft. As you might imagine, each square that these focused frenzies of photon landed on made them offer up just a little more of their balance in exchange for making it just a little bit farther, causing them to eventually spiral out of control and expand in size. One would figure this to be rather useless, but it was actually quite deadly, illustrating our main focus' level of skill through his complex weavings, outlined by his seemingly effortless motions. It seemed he was invincible when the frailty of each flying contraption and the being within is forgotten, even amidst all the fireworks covering the skies as if the stars were unfit to young eyes. Most of these fireworks were, of course, triggered by the twitchy finger of our skillful pilot.
As photon seemed to rain down, up, right, left, and any other direction known to Cornerians, our skillful pilot sampled his weapons, cycling his fingers to the first position designated by his mind, which allowed for the regular guns to be utilized. Two large eyes rolled through their sockets as they attempted to register the sight of an enemy craft, only to be redirected to the flank of the ship by the rear-view mirror known as instinct. The tidy form of our skillful pilot was ruined as he whirled around in his seat, despite prior training not to, and his eyelids lowered while the feathers around them burned to a crisp. His back slapped against the cushioning in unison with his elbows as he jerked the controls towards his body, initiating a tight loop which brought him neatly up, over, and around the back of his pursuer. The poor soul was far too surprised by such a moderate move that he recollected his sense in time to realize one wing had been blown off and the engine had been pushed to the point of over heating. Our skillful pilot batted his eyelashes and look away as an explosion, as if to find another target, engulfed his late pursuer, then went about redirecting his sights. He practically drooled as a beautiful view of another ship's thrusters came into view; one could assume our skillful was aroused by such.
The dull hums and lights of the thrusters yonder flared up as the ship yonder still grew frantic. It pulled upward, mirroring the actions of the pilot in the cockpit as he realized shit was about to hit the fan, or, more accurately, the photon was about to hit the highly explosive thrusters. He didn't get much farther than ninety degrees before our skillful pilot had already batted his eyelashes and proceeded to glance away from the ensuing explosion, to find yet another target, though the radio frequency in his headset had apparently been adjusted to pick up all messages, thus a burst of agonizing screaming, which lasted a brief two [point] zero six five seconds (our skillful pilot counted in between flinches), flowed in through the speakers, only to be drowned out by a mangled mess of static. The radio frequency automatically mapped itself to pick up the ranting of another pilot, but our own flipped the universal switch. He was wearing a scowl underneath his layers of metallic plating and elastic plastic; one which, oddly enough, exactly matched the moon's given form at the time, according to its cycle charts.
Our skillful pilot was distressed.
He found himself losing interest in the dog fight, as most of his supposed adversaries had been picked off already, and cursing the headset for switching itself into universal mode, or coming preset like that; the one or the other escaped our skillful pilot at this time. Such a detail didn't really seem to matter now as he pealed it from his head and tossed it off to the side of the cockpit, then wrapped his fingers around the controls of the Arwing he so comfortably sat in and turned them harshly to the left. A planet was thrown into view. It was crisp and blue as the ocean that lapped up against its lands; no hanging clouds obscured the view. Our skillful pilot found it rather comforting to allow his fingers to drift from the controls, allowing him to sporadically float, in retrospect, towards the planet that was so appealing, turning from a calmly humming mass of metal to a burning piece of tin foil in an oven. This didn't seem to affect our skillful pilot, either way, as he relished the thought of becoming a blazing red slash on the face of this beautifully blue piece of craftsmanship. It was hard to say whether or not this thought was malicious.
The headset flung across the cockpit was casually retrieved, placed on our pilot's noggin, and flipped back on, just in time to hear a batch of eerie voices begging our pilot to delay the day in which his feathers would all burn red, as well as a few light chirps in the background. These chirps weren't especially annoying, though they were erratic in volume and proceeded to grow rigid, then smooth, as they grew louder, then softer.
The flames outside the ship started coming within and our skillful pilot found himself teleporting as he sat forward to greet them. He ended up in a familiar bed in a familiar room with a familiar bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. Familiar sheets were cast from this familiar form as its ears registered the familiar message that faithfully played after each and every recovery of consciousness. 'Chirp, chirp; wake up, Falco! Chirp, chirp; wake up, Lombardi!'