IV: Hospice
A thin wisp of fragrant steam curled up from a worn mug as a gray furred paw wrapped around its handle. The old hare lifted the cup and gently sipped its contents, satisfied with the taste of the russet liquid as he leaned back into his cushioned swivel chair. Lights faded on and off on a bank of consoles that stretched before him, indicating an unwritten list of things to be done that morning. A faint odor of ozone reminded him that he was still aboard a ship breathing recycled air, and not on the peaceful walk through nature he never seemed to have time for.
A faint rumbling from the depths of the ship indicated the start up of another system, reminding him that he was on a smallish bridge. But for all the things the control center was not, the hare loved every part that it was. It was the place where everything happened. In his seat, he could control the massive collection of simple and complex machines that ultimately made up the Great Fox. At his fingertips were the buttons and banks of memory that made up almost every aspect of his adult life.
When he was reclining in his chair, carefully tasting a freshly brewed caf-ration, gazing at the wonders of space spread out through the view port before him, he was at peace.
"Hey, Peppy!"
Peppy Hare spat out his mouthful of steaming hot fluid and juggled his mostly full mug for a moment before miraculously regaining control of it, a good amount of the drink having sloshed over onto his pants and the floor. He whipped around and stared at who had interrupted the calm so suddenly.
"What!?"
The stubby amphibian that had called his name from the bridge doors not more than a couple of meters away shrank under the withering glare his elder targeted him with, and he took a second to work up the courage to speak.
"…Um…sorry Peppy," he murmured, assuming the stature of a schoolchild who was about to be slapped on the wrist while at the same time failing to hide a creeping grin that was beginning to wash over his face.
The hare glanced down at his stained trousers and the wet floor around him, and then at the half empty mug in his hands. He frowned at Slippy again, although this time without malice. A smile of his own tugged at his lips.
"Ugh…don't worry about it Slip," he finally said grudgingly, his mug still in hand. "What'd you need?"
"I uh, I got a message from Fox when I was up here a little while ago," he replied, still trying to hide his amusement at what had resulted from him surprising Peppy, "He said he and Falco'd reach us in an hour…two hours…I dunno. The com signal was really bad."
"Mm," Peppy said in an agreeing manner, wiping excess caf-ration from the knees of his trousers, "Meteos will do that."
"Yeah…" Slippy agreed, "But, I know that they'll be here soon, so I just wanted to let you know."
"Alright; thanks Slip." Peppy got up and stepped forward to leave the bridge, but before he got more than one footfall from his chair, he heard his boot splash in liquid. He looked down and lifted up his foot, frowning again.
Slippy watched with apprehension and knew what the hare was going to ask before the elder could even speak, "You want me to clean that up, right?"
Peppy breathed aloud and nodded solemnly as he finished what was left of his mug's contents, patting the toad on the back as he walked by and out of the bridge, and towards a fresh pair of trousers in his quarters, "Yep."
"Good lord; I thought these rocks were gonna go on forever," Falco quipped.
On the very fringe of the asteroid field, Fox could spy the dull gray, uniquely shaped carrier that was the Great Fox. The massive doors of the docking bay, slung under the vessel like a pouch, were already open and the interior lit, beckoning the pair of mercenaries in as they neared their home ship.
"Well there you two are," Peppy's voice came filtering through the com system, his com image and audio undistorted and clear for the first time since the mission started. The vulpine couldn't help but think of a father welcoming his kids back from a day of play as the hare spoke. Through the com portrait, Fox could see Peppy squinting at a console off to the side, "And…it appears you're a little heavier than before. Who'd you pick up?"
"Actually…we're not exactly sure," the vulpine replied, shrugging lightly and fixing a slightly apologetic expression on his muzzle. "It's kind of a long story."
"I'm gonna go ahead and state for the record beforehand that this was all Foxie's idea," Falco cut in as they approached the Great Fox and leveled off in front of its gaping hanger doors.
Peppy nodded and let his lips curl into a smirk, hearing the avian's comment but keeping his attention on Fox, "Well, we've got plenty of time on the trip back to Corneria. I could use a story."
-Thud-
The sound of the bay doors closing shut and sealing themselves off from the vacuum of space resounded throughout the lower floor of the Great Fox. A hissing gradually intensified as breathable gases filtered into the hanger, increasing to a point and then decreasing on an equally slow curve as it had began. The green light that signaled a balance of air pressure between the docking bay and the connecting hallway had barely lit up when Peppy strolled through the door, accompanied by a curious Slippy.
Adjacent to the pair of recently landed Arwings, the battered hulk of a fighter rested uneasily on the hanger floor, twisted and damaged beyond any recognition of a craft model or make. The only prominent structure that was still discernable amidst the heap of scrap was the transparent cockpit, and it was this that caught the entire crew's attention as they approached it, Fox and Falco having disembarked from their own, cooling fighters.
"Jeepers Fox," Slippy wondered aloud, picking up a small rod of metal off the hanger floor that had been knocked loose from the wreck by the landing, "What'd you do to 'er?"
The vulpine didn't respond, transfixed instead by the clear angles of the cockpit canopy. Or rather, what was behind it.
Being on an uneven tilt due to its extensive damage, the broken fighter's canopy was at eye level on one side. Fox approached this side with a purposeful stride, ignoring his teammates, who were watching him as they expected an answer to Slippy's question. Falco extended a hand towards the vulpine and looked at Peppy, silently asking him what his friend was doing. The hare just shrugged as Fox placed his palms gently on the heavily damaged canopy and stared in.
The pilot inside was still. It wasn't that Fox wasn't expecting the pilot to necessarily live during the trip back to the Great Fox; it would be a miracle if the life support system survived the initial collision. It was just that the mercenary captain had never actually gotten a good look at the foe he had literally gone head to head with. He peered into the cockpit for a better look.
The pilot was on its side at an uncomfortable angle, facing away from the vulpine. Due to the cockpit's interior damage, including several blown out consoles and hanging wires, Fox couldn't get a straight look at much of the pilot, but a few features stuck out. A pair of wilted, pointed ears jutted out of the helmet, although it could easily be seen that they were once straight and proud. A long crimson smear sloshed down the side of a worn leather flight jacket, similar to Fox's own save for color.
Fox thought he saw the slightest of movements in the pilot's thin, outstretched hand, but he dismissed it as a trick of the bright hanger lights as he turned and called his teammates over. They began to oblige, and the vulpine turned back towards the cockpit.
When he did, his veins turned to ice.
An impossibly bright red stream flowed from the pilot's heavily stained palms Fox had dismissed a second ago, running down the canopy he was only inches away from as they scratched and pawed nauseatingly at the solid, transparent material. Just behind it, before the searing image was covered up by another scarlet swipe of blood, a pair of eyes glowed desperately in half shut sockets. The pilot was saying something, but it was lost in the confines of the cockpit as the scraping of nail and flesh on the cockpit viewport material overtook it.
"S-slippy!" Fox sputtered, refusing or unable to look away from the spine-chilling sight before him as the pilot continued to try to literally claw its way out of the failing canopy, "Give me that!"
Slippy looked down at the piece of metal slag in his hands, uncomprehending and hesitating long enough for Falco to step forward and grab it from him. The avian had seen what Fox saw, and understood what had to be done, and waited only long enough for Fox to duck out of the way.
Falco tightened his grip, shuffle-stepped to the cockpit, and swung.
A crash.
Shattering. A din of voices and commands. Indiscernible.
Frantic clutching and grasping. Fresh blood from the splinters. More cuts. More damage.
A face. Rusty orange. Fresh air. Used air. More commands. It's getting warm.
Who are you? Where am I?
More commands. Softer this time. Reassuring.
A hand. Around the back. It tugs, but it's stopped. Tightness at the shoulders. Tightness at the waist.
An object in the hand. A flash. Another flash. The hand again. Empty. It draws towards the fresh air. Unimpeded.
A rhythm of steps. Hurried. Frenetic. More faces.
Who are you? Where am I?
Brighter lights. Another face. Not flesh. Metal. A metal face.
Pain. In the arm. Fading. Soothing.
A face. The first one again. Rusty. Speech. Soft.
Who are you? Where…
Fox stared at his palms.
The fingertip-less gloves were torn by the stubborn remains of the pilot's cockpit canopy. A few specks of the shattered material still remained in the cloth. The delicate rusty orange fur beneath was matted with an amount of blood that still surprised him. Not all of it was the pilot's. The flesh below the fur was torn and strained, contributing to the crimson above.
And despite all this, it didn't stop him from slowly lifting his palms and rubbing them gently over his eyes and forehead in an effort to settle himself.
He sat on the single bunk in his room, hunched over and out of breath, even though the whole event had taken place a half an hour ago. Everything that had happened, from the moment Falco had smashed the cockpit to the sealing of the modest med bay they maintained on board the Great Fox, the pilot, Peppy, and the team's android ROB within, had drained him. Fox simply wasn't prepared.
When he had grabbed the back of the pilot's soaked jacket, his fingers had slipped and slid in the blood soaked cloth, struggling to gain a grip. The pilot's arm bounced and swung horribly as they rushed through the Great Fox's hallways, dislocated at the shoulder. There was still a trail of red droplets leading back to the hanger. And all the while, the pilot was conscious. She, was conscious.
When he gently rubbed his close eyelids, he could still see her eyes staring up him as he gripped the shoulders of her jacket. Questioning. Seeking. Pleading. In his brief glimpse of those turquoise irises, he could see the pain. The uncertainty. The fear.
He groaned aloud to the empty room and stood up. He had to get rid of that image.
"Subject is a female member of the lynx species. Subject is approximately eighteen years of age, and has not been cited for any noteworthy outstanding criminal charges. Subject-"
"Ah, ROB," Peppy said, raising a hand, "Just skip ahead to the medical data."
"Acknowledged," the automaton replied, his monotonic voice emanating from an artificial voice box, "Subject suffered a dislocated left shoulder, severe loss of blood, moderate internal and severe external bruising, multiple external lacerations of multiple sizes, a minor concussion to the front portion of the brain, and minor structural damage to the right hand."
"Thanks ROB," the hare said, turning to the other occupants of the room.
All four members of the team were assembled in the relatively cramped space, gathered more or less around the single cot towards the back of the room. For a few moments, the only sounds in the confines of the sterile walls were the quiet, slightly labored breathing of the cot's occupant, and the occasional retort of a medical machine.
When Fox first entered the room, he barely recognized the pilot. In the process of administering whatever medical help the Great Fox's comparatively meager supplies could offer, her stained helmet and goggles had been removed, as well as her blood smeared flight suit. A pair of faded green pants remained from her original clothing, and it appeared that Peppy had acquired a black T-shirt from somewhere to preserve the pilot's modesty while her flight suit underwent stain removal.
A series of transfusion tubes and status wires were hooked up to various spots around her body, forming a web of medical cable. Bandages covered her right palm and a few other places where necessary, and by the looks of the wastebasket nearby, they had been changed multiple times already.
"So how's she doing Peppy?" Slippy asked timidly, kneading his hands together in a nervous habit and completely forgetting that ROB had just given a detailed answer to his very question.
"Well," he responded, scratching his chin, "According to ROB, and my own observations, she should be able to safely stay awake for short periods by the end of the day, and after that…we take it one step at a time. We have another couple of days until we reach Corneria, so until we can get there and drop her and, well, what's left of her ship off, she's our guest."
"…Our disabled, non-interactive, unconscious, guest," Falco added.
Peppy sighed at the avian's apparent lack of compassion, "…Yes, Falco, in a very blunt manner of speaking."
"Did she have any ID on her?" Fox asked.
"We couldn't find anything on her," the hare responded, shrugging, "And anything in the computer on her fighter's probably fried. Once we get to Corneria, I'll send a request to the government's galactic directory. We should get something that way."
Fox nodded in assent, and Peppy looked around at the rest of the crew. Seeing a look of indifference from Falco, and the blank, introverted stare of Slippy, hinting at the tidal wave of thought flowing in the toad's mind, the hare turned back towards the team's automaton and temporary medic.
"Immediate status, ROB?" he asked.
The metallic head whirred and turned towards the team. "Subject is stable in all areas of physical health, with minor fluctuations in brain neurological activity. No substantial abnormalities. Status green."
Peppy was already following the rest of the crew out the door of the small medical room when he turned his head back, speaking over his shoulder to the decently worn and aged robot, "Let us know if anything changes."
"Affirmative."
Fleet Captain Hartford rushed through the faded gray hallways of the massive Cornerian Dreadnaught Midnight Howl, panting and breathing quick and light as he rounded corners and dodged other officers as they traversed the corridors. Some frowned, and others laughed as he passed, but he just kept charging. His promotion to commander of the nearby cruiser Broadsword was a recent affair, and the last thing he wanted to do was to show up late to the first campaign planning session he had been invited to. The pitter-patter of his boots on the metal deck bounced around the bright, ashen halls of the Howl as he ducked and turned tightly in another intersection.
This was the last time he'd rely on an alarm clock to get him up.
His species' characteristically bushy tail rode the wind and his youthfully gray fur brushed back from the speed. The husky glanced down at his wrist-chrono and neatly sidestepped a couple of lieutenants from the Dreadnaught's starfighter command. Maybe if he timed it just right…
The door to the planning room loomed just ahead as he rounded another corner, every step bringing him closer, but every second working against him. A guard that stood next to the door saw Hartford approaching and gauged his situation from the speed at which the husky ran. The sentry quickly consulted his holo-clipboard to ensure the officer's identity, pulled his own ID card from his belt, and swiped it over the preliminary security scanner, opening the door and allowing the Admiral to slip in without halting his swift gait.
Hartford whispered a 'thank you' as he entered the darkened room and stopped curtly once inside, hoping that he could slow down his heart rate before anyone noticed his breathlessness.
Thanks to the dim lights of the smallish room though, he managed it. He approached a broad table in the middle of the chamber at a more casual rate, the viewers around it either acknowledging his presence with a polite nod or keeping their focus on the holographic projections before them. The table provided the majority of the light in the room, casting colored reflections onto the faces of the other officers. Sighing from relief that he seemed to have made it on time, he was able to glance down at the holoprojector for only a moment before a deep, gravely voice caught everyone's attention.
"Alright. Now that everyone is present," the speaker began, glancing at Hartford, who cowered slightly in posture from the older man, "…We can begin the briefing."
As the speaker went through a series of preliminary items on an agenda, the husky officer leaned towards another one of the younger commanders, lowering his voice to a bare whisper, "Was I late? I thought the briefing was at oh-eight-hundred."
The hare leaned in as well, whispering sideways with a smirk and not taking his eyes off the speaking High Admiral, "It was. Everyone else was just early."
The rec room – or what was considered the recreation room onboard the cash-strapped Great Fox – was abuzz with the ambient sounds of a good yarn: sporadic bursts of laughter, occasional inquiring questions, and good-natured ribbing from the narrator's audience. Despite the utter lack of 'entertaining' devices in the comfortable, if slightly bare, room, Fox and his friends always managed to strike up a good time.
A variety of trophies and trinkets adorned the shelves and tables of the gunmetal gray room, souvenirs of past contracts and experiences. Constituting the sole luxury of the chamber, a wide data screen covered a large portion of one wall, giving the recreation area a second purpose as the team's unofficial pre-mission room. Occupying the center of the room was a cluster of comfortable chairs and a few small tables arrayed in a rough three-quarters circle.
Now, at Peppy and Slippy's behest, Falco was recalling the entire span of events that occurred from the outset of the mission to its less than desirable end, with Fox filling in a few key parts that the avian had exaggerated or omitted all together. His sweeping hand gestures and overemphasis on descriptive words were enough to put a smile on the rest of the team's faces, without even hearing what he was saying.
"…So after I presented my side of the argument," Falco explained, pointing with his thumb towards Fox, "This rebel over here decides to boost off towards whatever the hell the distress call was. You'd have though he was Slippy going after a Lylatian Mechanics Monthly or something." This drew a smile from the toad as Falco went on, describing his own heroic deeds in the ensuing skirmish with the scavengers.
It wasn't until he got to a certain point in the story that Peppy began showing particular interest though.
"And this guy just barrels toward old Foxie and that hunk of metal we have in the hanger right now, blasting away at his unshielded backside like there's no tomorrow. Which there wouldn't have been, if I hadn't swooped in behind the bandit and blasted the sucker right out of existence. Brilliant marksmanship on my part if I do say so myself."
"Which, you do," Fox added with a smirk, clapping his friend on the back.
"Which, I do," Falco admitted, grinning and holding his hands up and to the side, as if in resignation of his own incredible skill.
Everyone had a good laugh at that. But as it quieted down, Peppy placed his chin between his thumb and forefingers, clearly pondering about something Falco had said. While Slippy engaged the bird in excited conversation over some other details of the mission, Fox noticed the thoughtful expression on the hare's face and slid his chair a little closer, asking at a lower voice, so as not to impede on the other discussion in the room, what was the matter.
"Hm? Oh, nothing," the elder responded, shaking his head. Clearly though, there was something, and Fox suddenly felt uneasy as he had ideas of what it could be. Sure enough, a few minutes later, while Falco and Slippy were still talking away, their discussion having turned to the screw-ups the toad would've committed had he been in the avian's place during the mission, Peppy nodded towards Fox and spoke again. "Can I see you in the hanger for a second?"
The vulpine sighed and nodded, having expected the request and knowing where it would lead. He stood up and left with the hare, leaving his other teammates to continue their argument. Fox managed to catch the last lines of the exchange as the rec room doors slid shut.
"…all I'm saying is that at some point during the battle, you would've been all like, 'Fooooox' or something."
The hanger was empty.
A vulpine stood in the center of the large docking bay. He was surrounded by a quartet of Arwings and a recently arrived carcass of a fighter with the cockpit smashed open and the pieces still on the ground. Angry footsteps from a former inhabitant of the hanger still echoed off the dull gray walls, the source of the footfalls having left only moments ago.
But the hanger just felt empty.
Fox stared at the starboard laser cannon on the Arwing directly in front of him. He stared it at as though the twisted barrel of melted and melded steel and forged alloy would say something to him. He stared. And stared. And stared. But the cannon remained silent. Unlike the hare who just left, the piece of equipment refused to speak up.
It hadn't been the first time Peppy had chewed Fox out for his performance, or lack thereof, on an assignment. And it probably wouldn't be the last, either. It seemed like after any mission during which damage had been sustained to the vulpine's fighter, he got reprimanded heavily. He had learned to grow callous to the accusations of recklessness and irresponsibility after the first few times, but Fox still couldn't get over the stinging guilt that was always seeded in his gut.
It went beyond the cost of the repairs and spare parts that would inevitably be tallied as a result of his decision to put himself in death's flight course. It went further beyond the fact that Fox's mercenary unit was already incredibly strapped for cash, and that they could barely afford the supplies and operating costs to keep them working for the next month.
It was the father-son complex. Ever since Fox's father had died, a little before the Lylat War had broken out, Peppy had taken up in his deceased best friend's place and raised the orphaned son he left behind. For all intents and purposes, the hare was Fox's foster father, and even then, at that moment while he stood alone in the hanger, Fox had never regretted being Peppy's 'son' for an instant. He knew Peppy only came down hard on him because of worry for the young fox's safety.
And perhaps Fox deserved it. He had put himself in a position in which he could have been easily killed with nothing true to be gained. If that scavenger's aim had been a little better, Fox had no problem in concluding that he'd be either floating adrift and flashfrozen in the void, or vaporized by a scarlet red laser. Without Peppy there to rail his behavior every time he even tripped accidentally out of line, the vulpine would be dead by now.
"…I just wish he wasn't so harsh sometimes…"
Breathing heavy and deep, Fox shrugged his shoulders up high and let them sag down, shoving his paws in his vest pockets. He drooped his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. He couldn't escape the feeling that he was like a young pup who had just had his muzzle rubbed near a broken vase or some other childish misdeed. A sigh escaped his lips.
"…Whatever…"
Fox turned slowly and strode solemnly towards the hanger door and the hallway beyond. He needed something to get his mind off of what had transpired in the last fifteen minutes: he needed to shake the pit that had planted itself in his stomach. Ultimately, he needed to get the echoes of Peppy's coarse tirades out of his head.
As soon as he reached the lift at the end of the hallway, he punched in the floor of the Great Fox that housed the medical bay. Perhaps he could find some sort of distraction there.
Another big thank you to everyone who reviewed.
GL and Artistic Tuba: I'm honestly very psyched that you guys like my story: muy gracias for the kind words.
Kavi: Hey! That review really meant a lot coming from a good friend; and you're right about that error too. Thanks Kav
RedBay: Hahah, woah; that's one intense review right there. I've definitely taken everything you've said into consideration though; especially a few chapters from now, you've caused me to go back and make some changes for the better. Many thanks dude
Sir Raphael: Nah, don't worry; no intrusion at all. I'm trying to keep the plot tied to the main characters early on though, so I don't really have a lot of opportunity for well-developed OCs at this point, but as soon as I need one (which shouldn't be more than three or four chapters from now), I'll let ya know.