Dad?

Yes?

Why did this happen?

Greed, son. Greed and hate. Don't ever try and hate someone. It won't get you anywhere except to the business end of a blaster.

But… they tried to kill us.

It's possible to defend yourself without hate, son. It's even possible to kill without hate. But, that opens up a whole new can of worms. Now, come on. These cranes won't operate themselves.

"Economists report that the depression is beginning to show signs of waning, as reconstruction on Macbeth has been completed and mining stations begin to re-open. New trade routes are being negotiated as representatives from Galactic Merchant Marine and Sinderea Technology convene in Corneria's capital city…"

"… expect a boom in employment opportunities as untapped natural gas deposits are discovered in the nebulae…"

"... reports a relaxation in government restrictions on interplanetary tariffs to assist in economic development. Dana Strauss has the story…"

"A recent statement from General Pepper reports that thanks to Star Fox, pirate activity is at an all time low, good news for freighter captains…"

"The mineral wealth of Sauria means opportunities for growth we haven't known before…"

See, son? Time heals just about anything.

Then why does history repeat itself?

Is that why you're joining the force?

I want to stop this from happening, Dad. I want to be there, like you were. I want to keep us safe. I don't want to just pick up pieces; I want to stop things from being knocked down at all. I don't want my kids going what we went through.

With an attitude like that, son, you sure you'll live to see children?


A crash is not often something pilots get to live through and tell the story about. More often than not, if they were unable to eject, they ended up splattered across the countryside. Emery was one of the lucky ones. Through some miracle of physics or perhaps a compassionate higher power, his ship had not fallen apart and crushed him beneath its own collapse, or been ripped to pieces and shredded his body. Nor had it pulverized his bones in the landing. Emery was simply a survivor here, one of those soldiers with the ability to remain unhurt during an extreme situation in war, for reasons no one was ever able to divine.

His eyes jerked open as he awoke from his dreaming. He glanced around, dazed and in a state of shock as afternoon sunlight spilled through his canopy. Its luminescent rays caught the drifting dust, just like they did back home. He always neglected to dust. Emery remembered that this was the haze of battle, and that he had not crash-landed into a peaceful memory of home. He lifted his arm and turned his head, hoping he was still functioning well. Most of his body was aching and bruised, but other than a cold numbness in his right leg, he appeared to be operational. A smile graced his snowy white snout. He had survived, intact, except for one problem. When he tried to move his legs, needling, icy pain flashed up into his head.

The memories of home he had been having were now more of a distraction than a pleasant pastime. He concentrated on getting his bearings. The cockpit's opacity was at a minimum, allowing him a good view of his environment. His Starblazer was in the shadow of the building he had smashed into, with debris piled up around his ship, still smoking from its injuries. Craning his neck revealed the carrier far above, dogfights swirling in the underbelly. Another incandescent beam reached down from the massive ship, incinerating a part of the city several blocks off. Emery could hear the explosions clearly, and feel the rumble of collapsing buildings. The enemy was probably starting to lose ground if they were taking those kinds of measures. Or maybe they were just cruel.

He noted there were more enemies than allied ships now. Where were Lylat's cruisers? Had they been engaged by another enemy strike force from above?

In any case, he refused to sit here and be disheartened. He had to get out and rejoin his comrades. He still had a squadron to lead.

The canopy was ajar; the crash must have knocked it loose. He placed his hands on it and pushed upward, jerking the window open inches at a time. Loose mortar and debris showered down into the cockpit. As the pain in his leg became more and more noticeable, Emery decided he had to get moving quickly to find rescue. If an enemy patrol came along, he was done for.

"Pilot has regained consciousness," his suit said, cutting through the constant fizzle of static.

"Really, I wasn't certain…" Emery mumbled as he searched for a way to get himself out. He was on foot from here on in; the Starblazer would never fly again. It was as the computer went on that his worries became much more severe.

"Warning. Severe dislocation of right patella has occurred. Numerous contusions detected on other appendages. Sprain injuries detected in left elbow. Administering morphine and bio-restoration chemicals."

His leg complained something awful as he tried to haul himself out of the ship. He finally got a good look as it came into the light, and broke into a cold sweat. His leg had indeed become dislocated at the knee. The odd angle it was jutting upwards at made his stomach flip. The pain became immense as vague panic set in, but he was probably just imagining it.

Emery quickly completed his retreat from the cockpit, dropping onto the street below with a pitiable cry. His leg had not taken kindly to that short drop. His fur was damp with sweat as he forced himself to start moving again. If he froze up here and waited, he would likely die. The pain was stabbing right through the suit's attempts to keep him calm, as he was well aware that the more he moved the more damage his leg would suffer.

"I gotta get up…" he told himself, bracing his hands against the ground and thrusting upward. His sprained elbow did its best to resist any activity, but it didn't hurt all that much. He had to fix this on his own, and immediately. He began crawling towards a pile of debris he could brace himself against.

"I gotta get up… I gotta get up!" he said, over and over again as he clawed his way backwards towards a concrete block under the building he had smashed into. He clenched his eyes shut to fight the pain. Every shift, every jolt, every drag along the rough, debris laden surface of the ground made his nerve endings shout, struggling to be heard over the pain killers. His leg felt like someone had severed it with a butcher knife.

Finally, he collapsed against the slab, breathing heavily. His helmet was starting to stifle him, and he unlatched it and tossed it away, breathing in fresh air and feeling much better for it. He groaned aloud as he saw the state his leg was in. The knee was jammed into a sickening concave position, the sheer abnormality of the injury making him feel worse than he should have. There was no way he got out of this without some kind of ligament or nerve damage. He closed his eyes, trying to focus. He was a soldier with a battle to fight. Now, how to fix this again?

He leaned forward as far as he could, grasping his lower leg with his right paw, and wrapping his other around the knee, his thumb pressed in above the kneecap. He took several deep breathes, preparing himself.

This is gonna be the worst kind of pain, Emery thought, but he did it anyway.

He started out slow, but that only made it worse. Immediate and ruthless agony swept up through his leg, lancing right into his brain. He broke into a cold sweat. He began shouting and cursing for all he was worth as he pressed onward, his head swimming. Gently, with all the control he could muster, the leg began straightening… but it was so painful!

A few more inches down.

Keep pulling!

It felt like his head would burst. More, more! He had to go further. He could feel bone scraping against bone. Black spots swarmed in front of his eyes. He couldn't let himself rest or he'd never be able to work up the guts to try again.

One final push. He gritted his teeth and shouted through them.

There was a crick and a pop as his leg slid back into the joint, but Emery didn't allow himself to collapse. He grabbed his kneecap and gently maneuvered it back into position. Another sick, crunchy pop and he was done. The pain subsided immediately, and the fox gave himself a rest.

He collapsed onto his side and whimpered like a child, still clutching his leg with a death grip as he massaged the tightened muscles of his hamstring and thigh. The arctic fox was suddenly struck with the desire to close his eyes and sleep. It had been twelve hours (it felt like twelve months) or so since the start of the war, at least. In that space he had gotten a two hour snooze. His eyelids weighed heavily on him, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand. He had places to go and battles to fight.

Weary from his ordeal, he pushed himself up again, thanking whoever had invented morphine. He trudged back to the fighter to retrieve his blaster, looking at his reflection in the tarnished hull. He looked terrible; tired, unwashed, and spotted with dirt and grime.

Just like any soldier should, I suppose.

He was suddenly aware of his position again, in the middle of a battlefield. In his reflection, he saw his ears perk and his eyes danced with a light that made him feel alive. He had been trained; he had been conceived for this. He suddenly felt like he wanted to shoot something. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline talking.

He hauled himself up onto the fighter with some clumsy movements and reached into his cockpit, drawing out his blaster sidearm. Dropping back onto the ground, wary of repeating his dislocation, he looked up at the city.

It was a mess. Dust and smoke was everywhere from the collapsing buildings and burning war machines in the midst of Sirrus. A great plume of smoke was billowing up over the rooftops nearby. All around him he could hear the dull, repetitive thap-thap-thap of heavy repeating blasters. The Lylatians must have been making their push back into the city. Mass drivers pounded the air with bass thumps, and he could sometimes hear the sizzles and cracks of small arms fire, much too close for comfort. Once, he thought he could hear an odd noise that sounded like a hovercar going through a tunnel, but he attributed it to some freakish alien weaponry.

Up above, the carrier loomed silently, corvettes and fighters snaking through the air as they gunned each other down, the flashing lights and minute explosions providing a horrid, macabre backdrop to the entire conflict. Lasers burned streaks across his eyes as they passed through the sky, and anti-aircraft fire ruled the day. He couldn't see any Lylatian cruisers. They must have been engaging enemy reinforcements farther up.

Emery sighed. Now that he was on the ground, this fight was suddenly beyond his ability to control. He turned, grabbed his helmet and slid it back on, in case a sniper decided to get a bead on his head, withdrawing the visor to keep his vision clear. Then, he started walking, barely glancing at the building he had partially demolished on the way down. He hoped the front lines weren't too far, and didn't dare try to send out a distress call in case the enemy pinpointed his location. Another worry was how he was going to defend himself. His little blaster was a powerful gun, but it didn't stand a chance against the full power of an alien assault squad, or whatever organization they used.

It was odd, really. Their first contact with an alien race, and it started with bloodshed. It was mystifying, but somehow not surprising that they had simply come and started shooting. That made it easier to feel good about killing them. He didn't want to know where they came from. He just wanted to know the best way to send them back in pieces.

Very soon he came to another intersection. Before he could have another thought, the street in front of him exploded.

The blast sent him flying back onto his tail, the heat singing all of his exposed fur. The landing was hard and painful, and made him fear for his recently reduced joints, let alone his poor tail which was already scruffy from the last several hours. Dazed and frightened, he struggled to stand through the red haze over his eyes, scrabbling for his blaster, which had landed several feet away. He must have flown at least ten feet or so. His ears rang painfully.

Through the smoke, a metal monstrosity obviously not of Lylatian origin lumbered into view, clumsily rearing backwards. It stalked about on four sturdy legs, which supported a large, angular main body. Even in its crouched position, Emery saw that the main pod itself was easily a full story high. The entire beast reached up about eight stories. Turrets and what appeared to be a missile launcher were positioned around the body, which also sported a main cannon similar to the beam emitters on capital ships. All of them were firing in a cacophony of noise as blaster fire from further down the street pinged off its armored surface. Emery had literally walked right back into the middle of the war.

Emery scrambled backwards, the sounds of gunfire and explosions rushing back into his sensitive ears.

A rocket zoomed out of the street the war machine was retreating from and slammed into its side, making it groan with stress. With a single vengeful blast with its main cannon, it turned in Emery's direction and began walking with frightening speed for its size. Emery was determined not to have his obituary read 'Stepped on by giant alien tank,' and reacted accordingly to the thing's terrifyingly agile movement. The fox prayed it would simply stomp right over him.

No such luck; one of the turreted guns swiveled in his direction, guided by an impersonal targeting computer. Emery's hair stood on end as the turret straightened its aim. Still crab-crawling on his back, he finally felt his blaster slide into reach. He raised it, and in a rush of adrenaline and desperation, fired off a burst of pitiably defiant shots straight into the thing's marred face, jolting around with the impact of its monstrous feet crashing into the ground. The turret locked onto his location and prepared to fire.

Once again, Emery was knocked over by a large explosion. A missile from the sky had just impacted with the walking tank, disrupting its main turret's power supply and causing a massive chain reaction. Fire – green fire – erupted from the main body, but strangely it did not burn as hot as Emery thought it might. Laser fire poured into the breach as the abomination reared backwards as if in agony, stumbling into the wreck of another building behind it, back into view of its previous assailants. The tough construction shattered under its immense weight as a heavy repeating blaster down the street pounded the remains.

A Star Wolf fighter roared past at close range and began a steep climb. Emery saw it waggle its wings before departing once more, certain that the pilot had destroyed the tank for the fox's benefit.

Emery imagined he could hear the tank bellow in agony as it gave its final twitches of life under the ruthless barrage of blaster fire, then lay still. For all its might and terror, the grinding horror of war had reduced it to nothing more than melting, sparking scrap metal.

He stood up slowly and began to warily make his way back to the intersection the thing had appeared from, jaw agape. The main body of the tank was split wide open, a mess of burnt-out machinery and exploding munitions. What had it been like for the crew, if a crew had inhabited it? Had their deaths been quick? Had the fire vaporized them before their brains could even register the pain?

Emery hoped not. He hoped that they had felt the burn, the pain they had caused in so many lives in so short a time.

Apparently the Lylatian soldiers appearing down the street felt the same way. Emery poked his head around the street corner and saw them hurry up to their kill. Even at this distance, the straightness in their backs and easy gait spoke volumes about their elation at taking down the walking tank, even if it had taken a fighter's help.

"Damn! Look at the size of that thing!" remarked a young private, hefting his rifle as they came to a halt. "Why don't we ever get stuff like that?"

"Because we'd end up like the sorry bastards who drove it," answered a sergeant next to him. "Shot down by the toughest planetary guard in the system!"

"Hey!" barked the husky lieutenant leading the platoon. "This ain't over yet! Keep your eyes peeled, guns downrange! I want a solid perimeter at this street corner!"

They were not part of the elite Systems Corps, the army units attached to the fleet and able to take on the hardships of planetary invasion and zero-G fighting. By their uniforms and the way they handled themselves they had to have been part of the local Planetary Guard. Garrison units called on to engage the enemy in mostly defensive actions or making up the main attack force after a beachhead was secured by advance units. His mere status as a fighter pilot would ensure some respect, and Emery stepped into the open.

Despite their jubilation the soldiers were not ready for another surprise. A score of guns was aimed at the downed pilot before he took one step.

"Identify yourself!" the lieutenant called out as a matter of course. Emery held up his paws in a gesture of submission.

"Major Emery Wickliff, squadron leader serving with the 56th Fire Starters on the Aragosa."

The guns were lowered as the lieutenant came forward to shake his hand.

"First Lieutenant Carl Davek of the Macbeth Planetary Guard, 3rd Legions Infantry Division. Sorry about the surprise, sir."

"No worries. I crash-landed just down the street. You guys picked a hell of a time to find me."

"Well, you picked a hell of a place to crash. We were an advance unit and got cut off from our battalion after the aliens pulled some of their forces out of the mountains and back into the city. Timed it perfectly with our counterattack and chopped us to pieces. We used to be a whole company," he said with a dark glance at the remaining men, who all looked quite haggard now that Emery got a good look.

"Up top isn't much better," Emery said, trying to be consoling. "The cruisers have pulled back. I guess they don't have enough punch to take out the carrier on their own, especially with her escorts and the anti-aircraft guns tearing things up."

Lieutenant Davek cursed under his breath and looked around at the blasted cityscape, his men slouching visibly at the bad news. The smell of burning alien fuel stung his nostrils.

"We're heading for one of the bases we've managed to set up near one of the highways out of town. But we can't expect a big welcome. Ever since the carrier opened up with its big guns, everything on the ground has become a target until the flyboys get their act together. The aliens wiped out most of the guard we'd set up in the city once they touched down. Their ground forces own this city. Till you space cadets showed up, we were down to the skin of our teeth."

He raised his hand and pointed back the way they came.

"All right, they're sure to have noticed that we just took down that thing! Get ready to move out! Major, if you'd be so kind?"

"I'll need a weapon, and a medic. I hurt my leg on the way down." Emery said, looking down at his blaster. The lieutenant whistled, and a private handed him a spare rifle. It was an AR-75, an older model, but reliable and sturdy as all get out. He nodded in satisfaction and glanced around at the guardsmen gathering nearby. Now that their enthusiasm had worn off, they looked just as bad as him. All of them harried, wild-eyed, their bulky armor smudged with dirt and blood. They had to have been fighting since the first alien touched the ground.

"Our medic got blasted by that damn tank, sir. We'll try to let you keep up."

Emery nodded bluntly. He'd just have to be careful.

"Lead the way, lieutenant."

"Everyone, fall in!" the husky called out. "Remember what we're out here to do. We fall back to the stronghold, then hightail it back to Division HQ. Short burst transmissions and essential communications only."

They began jogging back down the street where they had chased the walker. Emery did not feel safer despite being with other soldiers. They were in the exact same spot as he was, reduced to fighting a running battle with the invaders until they could link up with the others again. His leg dragged, still refusing to work quite right, and his gait was clumsy and stiff-legged. It didn't feel good to move this fast without a splint, but they'd worry about that later.

"Cyphers! Galstaff!" the lieutenant barked into his helmet radio. "Pack up that blaster and meet up with us back at the grey building. We're leaving, soldiers!"

Watching these men, sliding along the walls and keeping their guns leveled at every shadow that crossed their path, surrounded by a dying city, Emery suddenly very small and out of place, and the blaster rifle felt heavy in his paws.

The streets were ominously silent save for the pounding thuds of errant boots.