A/n: Chapter 2 of 100 Inspired Works! I think this chapter's a bit too much like the other one, and even has a reference to Pit, and unfortunately by dumb luck the next chapter will too. And I'm not even that fond of Pit…oh well, here's my attempt to make this chapter different than the other one. And cheers to my first time writing about Fox! I'm sorry if I've gotten any information/canon wrong.

Wings

Fox McCloud nodded in the breeze, his fur ruffling. His ears picked up for a moment, listening to the shriek of the wind. A storm. Perfect.

Making his humble way over to his galactic ship, the pilot admired it for a second. What a beauty she was, the majestic Great Fox, aerodynamic and gliding like a leaf. How easily she rode the sky, conquering new universes and star settlements, bold and brave. She was a beauty, for sure.

But he wouldn't be piloting the great aircraft today. No, he thought sadly, as he activated a code on his technological bracelet around his wrist. No, as much as he wished he could, it was off-limits. Purely for show, just like everything else in this death trap.

The boarding door swung down slowly, like a sleepy giant, from the side of the ship, and Fox waited patiently, his mind making mini calculations and what he should fix on the ship and what he could do himself and how much he could pay for parts for repairs and –

Oh, yes. It didn't matter. Master Hand would take care of it.

Sighing, he walked up the plank, listening to the dull thud of his boots on the silver titanium, remembering what he and Falco cheered to as "the old times" on many a drunken night. The days they, and the rest of their comrades, and flown through the sky, battling evil and saving damsels, the whole hero shin-gig. And they had been heroes.

Maybe some sacrifices just aren't worth giving.

He continued on through the insides of the great beast, winding along thin corridors and navigating it like he'd known it his whole life – which, of course, he had. Of the few things he knew, but excelled in, this ship was one of them. It was his home, no matter what Master Hand encouraged among the Smashers.

But maybe the whole thing revolved around what a sacrifice was really.

At last, he reached the front, right below the command deck of the ship. Here was the loading/carry compartment, and here rested a few of the last arwings. The slim, sleek airships glinted dully in the dim light, and Fox approached them with a strange but familiar feeling of apprehension in his tummy. His favorite, his personal one, was at a stop a few feet from him, where he had last left it. Without a second thought he opened the top and climbed inside with the familiarity and agility of one who absolutely knew what he was doing, which, of course, he did.

Was this a sacrifice? Of course it was. Was the contest a sacrifice? Hell yeah.

A sudden twist of irony made him smirk, at himself, at his fortune, at the way he thought about things and his pathetic self-pity. He was Fox McCloud, dammit, and he wasn't a pity failure.

But those thoughts didn't help, and made him feel even worse. He shrugged it off, or tried to, and concentrated on activating another button on his bracelet, allowing the airlock to open in the front of the ship. It was only accessible from the inside, as to prevent intruders. Slippy, however stupid he was, had somehow thought of that.

But he missed Slippy. He missed his annoying, croaking voice. He missed Krystal. He missed his crew standing behind him as he piloted the Great Fox, with Peppy telling hilarious stories of his, Fox's, father James, and Falco's good-natured irritation with his flying skills. He missed everything about the "good old days".

Shaking his head, Fox backed the arwing out to turn it around, and once he had done so, waited for a moment, his hands clenched on the controls.

This airship, resting in his home, had given him wings. And they had taken them away.

Then the arwing rocketed forward, out the port, and twirled into the cloudy sky. Inside, the pilot's face widened into an almost frightening grin, not the least bit dizzy from the tight corkscrew launch. His body was used to it, as if he'd been doing it his whole life, which, of course, he had.

He had never felt as alive as when he was in the sky, yet so dead.

These were his wings, this is what skyrocketed him and gave him a boost. This is where he felt comfortable, this is what gave him hope and kept him moving forward, and this is what he trusted in. These were his wings.

And they'd stolen them from him.

This was the sacrifice he was making, one of many, anyway. He missed his ships. He missed his friends. He missed everything that wasn't the contest, the Manor, the Smashers.

He missed his wings.

With his wings he could fly away, he could find his crew and they could be heroes again – they could brave dangers again, fight battles and gain something in the end. And that was one of the things he hated about the contest – the battles. There was no thrill in these battles, no purpose, no gain. He faced nothing but losing if he lost. There was no threat of death or torture if he didn't prevail, but he had stopped prevailing because he saw no point.

He never felt so alive and so dead.

With instincts that had been honed over his entire life, he made a sharp turn, nearly completely around, and plummeted downward. He loved the ground rushing toward him like a hungry mouth, waiting to swallow him, and it was with slight rue that he thrust the controls upward again, blowing the grass flat and the tail of the arwing nearly skimming the soil. Dimly he wondered what would have happened if he had let it crash.

Nothing, he knew. He was practically immortal here, because Master Hand couldn't have any pesky legal matters to deal with during the tournament.

He never felt so alive and so dead.

He couldn't die. And that made him feel so utterly dead. There was no thrill, no adventure, no danger, no dragon waiting to eat you Dear Lord this is it please; No enemies, no problems, no wings. He'd been forced to sacrifice his wings.

Maybe it was a good thing, or so thought Master Hand, but when you take away one's will, purpose, and intent, fight to live and fire to win, you leave him with nothing to work for, and no dreams. You tell him to be a good pet and strip him of his wings.

At times Fox envied Pit, but not now. Right now, barreling through the sky with nothing but him and the controls, Fox pitied him. If this was what Fox was missing, he couldn't imagine was the angel had lost.

Fox McCloud had been reduced to stealing away for just a moment to regain his wings, just to remember the good days. And he couldn't do anything about it. Had he been able to, he would've grabbed Falco a long time ago and the two of them would have high-tailed it out of here, but they were trapped. Part of it was those pesky legal matters Master Hand was determined to manipulate (which he did well) and the other part was serious, physical restraint. He could not leave.

So Fox was left piloting the quiet sky on wings that couldn't take him anywhere, wishing for the good old days, wishing for his wings.

A/n: I really like this piece too. Thanks to: Eggplant Witch: Hey, great to see you on FF again! Of course you'd be drawn to the Pit fic :D And thanks, that's exactly what I was trying to do! Thanks for reviewing:) And AvidAkiraReader: Well, it's nice to meet Akira Hand but I'd like to meet AAR (or so I've shortened you:) and don't worry, I'll continue. And by the way, it's you that got me interested in doing it in the first place! So I thank you for reviewing and for sparking my interest.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

~Araceli L