A/N: I'm gonna keep this short. I'm so sorry this took so damn long, but the summer just kind of got away from me. Plus, I spent the month of June in Germany, so that didn't help. Anyway, at last, here's Chapter 14. Enjoy.

I don't know how to live through this hell
Woken up, I'm still locked in this shell
Frozen soul, frozen down to the core
Break the ice, I can't take any more

Freezing, can't move at all
Screaming, can't hear my call
I am dying to live
Cry out
I'm trapped under ice!

-Metallica - Trapped Under Ice

Elkhorn, Nebraska

It was, of course, morning in the Great Plains, but Lieutenant Colonel Erick Josefson didn't care to know it. He was perfectly fine laying in bed until next Monday, thank you very much, and nothing on this Earth would change that fact.

After trying so hard yesterday to get off his forced vacation, and acting maybe a little too crazy in hindsight, he was right back where he started.

No more reruns of game shows for him, though. He'd rather sleep away an entire week of his life than be awake without a day at Offutt to work through. And he was certainly doing everything in his power to make sure that would be the case. All of the windows in his room were blocked with heavy, bleak-colored blankets, making the officer's bed space darker than a night in Minecraft without torches. Additionally, Josefson had both his white noise machine and his ceiling fan going, creating a buzzing that would make one want to get their ears checked if they didn't know where the sound was coming from.

His bedroom was an isolation chamber, and that was exactly what he wanted.

Josefson raised his head quickly to look at his alarm clock. In square, red numbers, it told him that it was currently a quarter to nine. He let his head fall facedown onto his pillow.

Still, his body protested his efforts to obtain excess sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, a pang of pain shot through his head, which would soon dissolve into the dull thump of his pulse. Aside from being rather annoying, it had the dual purpose of slowing time down that much further. It seemed no matter what Josefson did, the week would drag on and on into forever.

He rolled dejectedly to his other side, searching for a cool spot under the blankets with his legs.

Around that time, he became aware that the dull thump in his head was beginning to act strangely. At random points, the noise would become perceptibly louder, but for only one thump. On top of that, he would gain a sudden sensation that his bed was shaking, ever so slightly.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether he had actually started dreaming. It was such a welcoming explanation that he almost believed it.

Sadly, it was reality, and he was not dreaming.

The shaking of his bed and the thump in his head ceased being barely perceptible; instead, they began to strengthen and intensify. Soon, Josefson finally realized that the sounds were coming from outside and not from his own over-sleeping.

Maybe it's a thunderstorm. Lord knows we could use the rain, he reasoned before immediately dismissing it. In this worst drought since the Dust Bowl, Andy Dick would become president before they got a single raindrop.

Presently, he could hear things in his house begin to shake, sending a dull rattling sound throughout the room. Josefson bolted into a sitting position on his bed, a look of slightly scared confusion on his face. The entire house was certainly shaking now, as if besieged by an earthquake.

But...how? Earthquakes damn well don't just happen in the Midwest.

As befuddled as a student studying quantum physics, he got up and tore the heavy blanket down off one of his windows. Sunlight immediately beat back some of the darkness. Josefson pulled down harshly on the cord which opens the blinds.

What he saw made him want to just lie back down in bed and wait for the end.

The neighborhood itself was unaffected, but that state wouldn't last for long. Out towards the southwest, he could see streams of sickly black smoke rising lazily into the sky. A distant blue and white explosion lit up its surrounding area, and moments later a fresh shockwave rocked the lieutenant colonel's home, nearly tipping him off his balance. The sound of jet fighters followed it as a group of three planes flew west to east across Josefson's line of sight. They were about a half-mile away and moving so rapidly that he could barely make them out. However, he saw just enough to realize they were like no plane he'd ever seen.

The characteristic chill of fear flew up his spine as an even stronger explosion rocked Josefson's humble dwelling.

Disillusioned, he let his blinds fall all the way down to the floor. He took needlessly cautious steps back to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. As much as he wanted to ignore the fact, the evidence made it clear to him and to anyone else awakened by the falling bombs. Whether or not they lived through the bombing run or not was of no importance. The crucial truth remained the same.

Someone, or something, was attacking. And they were out for American blood.

Randomly, he became aware of a sudden silence between the never-ending noise of explosions, the same way one might become aware of a new sound. His white noise machine had quit working. Not much longer, Josefson put two and two together and realized the power had been cut.

His next thought went straight to Offutt. What of his squadmates there? Had it already been destroyed? If these people or things had any semblance of intelligence, reasoned Josefson, surely they would have already taken out the military base. And yet he knew that the first chance he got, he should hop onto his motorcycle and head there anyway.

Fine week for you to force me into a vacation, MacAllen, the officer thought with grim sarcasm. Really, he was very concerned about MacAllen, about Parker, about them all. For all he knew, they had already been annihilated by the enemy, and he would drive up to his base only to find the charred remains of their bodies among the rubble.

A sickening shriek suddenly rang out somewhere above him. His house seemed to bounce about as if the ground had become a trampoline. A symphony of items of objects being thrown from their shelves started up from within the structure. Josefson let himself be thrown off the bed and onto the floor, using the momentum to easily curl himself into a protective ball.

The shriek of what might have been...jet engines?...morphed itself into a series of disgusting smashes and groans. The extreme volume of the noise almost made his ears bleed profusely, and it seemed to last impossibly long. But everything ends, and after fading slightly with distance, it stopped as abruptly as it had come, leaving the sullen, intermittent sound of cracking wood behind.

What in the name of the great, exalted protector in heaven was that abhorrent racket?! It almost sounded like a... The sight outside his window completed that sentence for him. As he had been thinking it, he had jumped back onto his feet and torn open the blinds. What he found was the result of some kind of cosmic bowling. Instead of a bowling ball and a standard rack of ten-pins, though, God had used a Boeing 787 Dreamliner and the houses lining the street perpendicular to his own. In fact, it looked like He had gotten tired of 7-10 splits and had done the equivalent of throwing a stack of two-by-fours down the bowling lane.

Meanwhile, tiny spurts of flame ignited the rubble surrounding the downed commercial plane. What disgusted Josefson the most, though, was what appeared to have brought the jet down. Clearly, the passenger plane had been fired upon, but the weapon used had burned holes clean through the fuselage. Whatever hadn't been sucked out by decompression had been destroyed on impact.

An impact, Josefson realized, that couldn't have missed his house by more than fifty vertical feet.

Once again, he was stunned into complete silence. But this time, instead of nearby explosions answering him, it was relative quiet. The bombs seemed to fall more distantly; the shockwaves, not as strong. The power did not come back (and he wasn't sure if it ever would), but a relative peace came over the neighborhood. The initial run seemed to be over.

He crossed the room and looked out the window on the opposite wall. The destruction on this side of Josefson's house was indeed comparable to that of the other side, although there was no plane crash. It dawned on the lieutenant colonel that his house was quite possibly the last one standing for many blocks. He hoped it would stay that way.

This was no time for inaction, though. His mind immediately wandered back to Offutt, and the fact that he was needed there. If this attack didn't nullify his forced vacation, nothing would.

The distant rumble of explosions was cause for pause, though. If he left now, he could easily ride right into the bombing area and be reduced to mere atoms in an instant. Perhaps he should wait a while for the enemy to move farther east before attempting to go anywhere. How long to wait, he had no idea, but he felt he could trust his judgment on this one.

Knowing full well in the back of his mind that a stray bomb could kill him at any moment, he got himself dressed into something more comfortable than a military uniform; namely, a plain black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Onto his right leg he strapped a holster for his Glock 21C. Josefson didn't have the slightest idea if there would be any ground troops or not, but it was better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it. For a quick moment, he thanked his lucky stars that he had filled up the gas tank on his motorcycle yesterday.

Then, he sat and waited, gravely wondering if there would be an Offutt to go to when he arrived.

/\\\\\\\\\\

As the Bulldogs and Star Fox slighted south to continue their bombing runs, Caleb and his squad curved north to head towards Eppley. The city grew denser beneath both fighter groups, houses and businesses more frequent, roads more trafficked, people more active on what appeared to be a very nice day.

Caleb inspected his control panel and decided it was time for a broadcast.

"Ten miles to target."

If the husky looked down, he could see the hustle of the morning hours in the form of primitive cars moving about on the concrete streets. If he looked closely enough, he could make out the creatures themselves, traversing the sidewalks. He could picture them glancing up at the sound of the Lylatian ships, stopping in their tracks as they realized something was very wrong.

Caleb knew they wouldn't have much longer after that. Falco, Peppy, Slippy, and the Bulldogs were dutifully zigzagging behind his squad, dropping bombs wherever they saw fit. And so far, that meant just about everywhere.

All was quiet on the radars so far, just like it had been. The lack of aerial combat was beginning to make Caleb paranoid. It seemed like any minute now, any minute, the humans would challenge them and force a dogfight. No matter the outcome, it would happen, and it would happen soon. And yet, and yet, it didn't come.

If anything, though, it managed to rip his mind away from Alyssa, if only for a few minutes. Both were going through their own date with emotional turmoil, and the war made sure they were oblivious to each other's plights. The shields between them? Two SFF-131 single-seater fighter ships, each with a top speed of 26 kilometers per second and dual 25 centimeter laser cannons.

Alright, Caleb. Focus. It's coming up soon.

It certainly was. To his right, the skyscrapers and urban density of the downtown area were passing. And just slightly to his left, the flat, concrete plain of an airport was growing in size.

"Huskies, ready your weapons and report in," Caleb ordered. He also began to lower his altitude, and knew the other seven would do the same. After all, it wasn't the first time they'd done this.

"Husky Six, reporting in," the voices started to reply.

"Husky Three, all's good."

"Husky Eight, ready."

"Husky Four, ready."

"Husky Five, good to go."

Caleb noticed there was a lake between them and Eppley Airfield. It poked at his childhood for a moment, and he suddenly had the urge to find out the name of the body of water.

Huh. Carter Lake. What do you know? I guess some things don't change.

"Husky Seven, all ready."

"Husky Two, let's just do this," Alyssa spoke somewhat distractedly. For a moment, it seemed to the canine that she didn't want to be here, either. That filled him with a little hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the only one sick of the conflict.

Nah, not conflict. Annihilation, more like it.

"Squad, your weapons are free. Split up into your pairs, take out each and every plane you see, but avoid the buildings at all costs!" Caleb reminded. He really didn't need some reckless idiot taking out a piece of the Husky squadron's new home base.

And so far, no one did. All of Husky squad hit their targets accurately and with precision. Just like before, the planes were reduced to piles of twisted metal and ash scattered across the tarmac. And just like before, they met next to no resistance.

That's not quite correct. There was no resistance. None at all. Not even a single soldier firing his rifle wildly into the air, hoping for a lucky shot before literally going out with a bang, like he'd seen almost every time before.

This struck Caleb as odd. Even considering how underdeveloped they are compared to the Lylatians, even considering how little such last resort tactics could ever hope to achieve, these humans usually showed at least some fighting spirit. Instead, nothing.

Come to think of it...these planes aren't like what I've seen before, either... Caleb noticed. No longer did the sleek, streamlined, and small single-seated ships dominate the airfield; taking its place were bulkier, much larger planes, usually decked out in bright colors and many different logos.

Adding to the sudden uncertainty were the large lots of parked cars that nearly surrounded this Eppley place. It seemed possible to the Siberian husky that this particular base just had plenty of personnel, but the sheer number of vehicles practically shouted the opposite.

Out of the corner of his eye, using the reflection of System 77's parent star, he saw another one of those large, bright planes coming in for a landing. He delegated himself to take it down.

And, on top of that, there was just a lack of weapons. Caleb had not seen a single primitive missile launcher, a single heavy machine gun nest, or even a single military uniform for that matter. It all seemed too peaceful, too simple, too damn vulnerable.

He fired two shots at the incoming craft, tearing the wings off with the first and ripping apart the fuselage with the second.

The sight told him exactly what was amiss, exactly what was wrong, and it wrecked him on the inside to boot. From the floundering remains of the fuselage, humans spewed forth. Ones, tens, totaling up to a hundred or even more were flung, jumped, or just fell away during the plane's final seconds above ground. It was impossible to tell if they were alive or just corpses, but it hurt just the same.

Caleb kept on flying in a straight line, refusing to turn around until he was absolutely sure all the bodies had hit the ground. His ears stopped hearing his squad's radio chatter. His paws stopped feeling the controls. His eyes stopped seeing anything but the deceivingly peaceful blue sky and the wall of emotion beginning to well up as the full realization hit him.

My God...we've just attacked a civilian airport...

"Husky squad, hold your fire, hold your fire!" Caleb ordered, trying his best to mask the regret and pain in his voice. He didn't think he did a good job, but his teammates didn't appear to notice.

"Nice timing, sir. We just took out the last plane, and with minimal damage to the tarmac," someone replied, almost with a bragging tone of voice.

"No, you don't get it!" he shot back. "This isn't a military base! This is a civilian airport!"

The canine recieved replies to this from all seven of his squadmates. Most of them, including Alyssa's, were of indifference; they acted as if it didn't matter that a bunch of innocent, unsuspecting people were just killed due to an error on a map. Of course, Caleb wasn't usually one for morals, either; the only reason he hated this war was because it delayed his engagement. Just, something about that fact, especially what he just saw with the humans jumping hopelessly from the plane he destroyed...

Something shifted its weight in his brain that moment.

As much as he wanted to call those indifferent members of his squad out, there was one other lupine that deserved special attention. His name was Ruslan White, call sign Husky Eight, and he refused to believe what Caleb thought was the obvious. His reply to Caleb's revelation had been this:

"Oh, what a load of shit."

Caleb had never really liked Ruslan all that much, but that sentence added a new level of hatred for the husky. To be cantankerous and confrontational was one thing, but blatantly denying the obvious marked a whole new low.

"Husky Eight, what?" he asked, wanting to be entirely sure he heard the lupine correctly.

"You heard me. That civilian airport spiel is a load of shit."

Caleb did hear correctly. And not even a 'sir' to give the appearance of respect.

The squadron of eight was circling aimlessly above their handiwork now. Huskies Two through Seven knew they had to wait for more orders, but after hearing Ruslan's comment, anything like that wouldn't be coming anytime soon. There wasn't much they could do but be bystanders to the ensuing conflict.

"And why do you make that statement, may I ask?" Caleb spoke, feigning calmness.

"It's obvious this is some sort of ruse, or camouflage, if you will. There's military activity going on deep in those buildings, just you watch," Ruslan replied, sounding very much on a high horse.

"Oh, really? Then why haven't they made an effort to defend it? Sure, their technology is horribly underdeveloped, but from what I've seen, they're not that stupid. They wouldn't leave something militarily viable undefen-"

"That's part of the trick. As soon as we step inside that building, we'll be ambushed."

"By what? A mob of terrified tourists? Because that's all there is to find in there!"

"Boys, you're wasting time with this arg-" Alyssa tried to interject, but Caleb wouldn't allow it.

"Stay out of this, Alyssa! I know what I see here, and that's a place that didn't deserve what it got!"

"Believe what you want, sir, but when I'm right, my last words will be 'I told you so'," Ruslan said contentedly.

"Look, you blind wolf, you didn't see it. Remember that plane that was coming in that I went and took down myself? Well, I took it down, alright. I took it down and got to watch a hundred humans burst out like goddamn corpse confetti! So the next time you contradict the obvious facts for the simple sake of being a nuisance, remember what I just said. Hopefully it will help you with being a fully functional person down the road."

Caleb breathed heavily, having spilled the contents of his mind forth for all to hear. A pleased smile crossed his face when nothing followed but radio silence.

Beneath their circling formation, stunned travelers stared out of the large terminal windows and into the sky, at the alien ships that seemed to admire their destruction, wanting to run but too shocked to move. Not even the TSA cared about their jobs anymore; families were running right past the body scanners and X-ray machines to get a better look or learn the fate of their loved ones. And when an airport employee came over the intercom and said that all flights were cancelled indefinitely, nobody thought it was new information.

"Now that that's over," Caleb started speaking again, back to his more official commander's tone. "Huskies Three and Four, go clear out the tower, and for God's sake, don't kill anybody unless you're directly threatened! The rest of us will clear out the main building of anyone and everyone. You have your orders, now move."

Officially, no one was supposed to leave their fighters until the convoy ships arrived to drop off the ground troops, and said ships weren't even supposed to lift off until the Bulldogs and Star Fox gave the all clear. But things had definitely changed. Caleb didn't know what would happen if those ground troops came across a terminal and a tower filled with civilians, and he didn't want to find out. He'd rather risk the reprimand if it meant innocent lives would be saved.

So they split into their groups. Caleb was ready to end this quick, and give the bonehead who mistook this civilian airport for a military base a nice, big piece of his infuriated mind.

\\\\\\\

LSS Jericho

Pure, utter hell. No other words possibly came any closer to describing what Fox was dealing with. Except maybe unending physical torture. But hadn't he heard that this sickness wouldn't last longer than a day or two? He didn't even know anymore.

He might say hell in Lylat, but he wasn't even sure where he was, either. Everything after Falco carried him back to his room on the Great Fox faded into a haze. And this haze, it acted like a membrane. If he tried to get past it, it pushed him back. If he tried harder, it only got stronger and pushed back harder. Inside the walls of sickness he was trapped, with no escape.

One of the only things the crippled vulpine was sure about was that he was laying down. On his back. He could feel something in his arm, pumping something cold into his body. His mouth was dry, but he was not thirsty. His stomach rumbled, but he was not hungry. He figured even if he had the strength to eat something, it'd be forced right back out onto the floor of wherever he was.

But was he really feeling all those things? Or was it just another one of the radiation's illusions?

Did he really not have the strength to get up right now, find his way to a fridge, grab a sandwich and a soda, and watch some mind-numbing television? Or was that in itself an illusion?

One thing, though, remained cold, hard fact. Fox was unable to open his eyes. Try as he might, the lids hiding his green eyes from the universe might well be welded shut. Trying to fight it was futile; it would only tire him out.

But it was this state of semiconsciousness that created the uncertainty in the first place. Sometimes, Fox couldn't even pin down whether he was dreaming or actually awake. Other times, he was almost absolutely sure he was awake, but there wasn't any sensory input he could use to be entirely certain of that state. The only things his senses picked up stayed the same through it all.

Then, something changed. His ears found noises, and his brain processed it. It was distant, but he knew it was real, that it existed outside his own head. He couldn't explain how he knew, but he was certain.

Footsteps. Many sets of them. And some kind of object with squeaky wheels.

They came closer, becoming louder to Fox. The vulpine prayed he could hold on to it, hold on to the action around him, and so far, he was.

Voices trickled in with the pitter-patter and the squeaking. It made him smile on the inside just hearing them. He missed the sound, he truly did.

The voices spoke in normal tones, conversational, yet serious. Fox was glad for this, too. All the easier to hear and understand them. If he could have performed an expression of joy, a wide grin, a wagging tail, a giddy shake of the upper body, he would have.

"...just absolutely amazing that he's still breathing," one of the voices said with a degree of respect.

"Yes, it's certainly miraculous," a second one replied tiredly.

The footsteps moved into Fox's room, or at least somewhere close; the vulpine could almost feel their presence with him. And that made him wonder...

...Are...are they talking about me...is it really that bad? Fox wondered to himself. Did I really come that close to death again?

The people and the action moved from being louder in his right ear to louder in his left. Fox easily deduced that they crossed the room. What was that squeaking for, though? Why was that noise following the people around everywhere?

"Still, I must insist that we keep him sedated until those wounds clear up a little better. Even with the best medical technology we have, it'll still take a couple days, and that's even if it works on him. I can't say for sure yet, and the last thing we need is this thing waking up all panicked and scared before the regrown tissues are ready to take the stress," the second voice continued. To Fox, it sounded like some kind of doctor.

"And how soon before we're ready to extract information from him?" It was the first voice again. It almost sounded like General Pepper, but without his sight, Fox was unable to say 100% for sure.

At this point, Fox hoped they weren't referring to him. For one, if they were Lylatian, and it sounded like they were, they shouldn't be needing to "extract information" from Lylat's ace pilot and hero, nor should they be calling him "this thing."

"Another day or day and a half after he wakes up should suffice, as long as he's fed adequately. After he's allowed some strength back, you may do as you please," the doctor said.

"Excellent. You did a great service keeping him alive," the Pepper-sounding voice replied happily.

"Thank you, sir."

"General, is it really such a good idea to keep this human so near to Fox?" a third, previously unheard voice interjected. The vulpine was relieved that he wasn't the subject of the conversation, but what in Corneria's name was a human? Fox had never heard that word before.

"Joseph, it's fine. The human scum will be kept unconscious for a while, and even if he does wake up, his limbs are bound. Besides, I was told Fox's condition would improve within about...hours, isn't...doctor?"

Suddenly, the sounds around him began to seem distant and warped, like his head was in a fishbowl. Comprehension became more and more impossible as the voices faded away.

Wait, stop, let me hear, there were no footsteps, let me hear, they were talking about me and how much longer I'd be down, let me fucking hear! Fox thought frantically, trying to hang on to the awareness he hadn't experienced since the previous afternoon, but once again, the haze fought back. For all his effort, the vulpine might as well be trying to move a skyscraper with his bare paws.

He wanted to scream, wanted to call out to whoever was in the room for help, but that proved to be impossible. The brain sent the signals, but the body never received them. The haze fought that, too.

Unable to control his descent, he slipped back into the clutches of the radiation, back into hell.

Gamer mii: What do you have against Carroll, Iowa?

MAG: Pyrrhic. What an excellent word. I'm just gonna...just gonna steal that from you...

Shalemaster + Blood-Red Banner: As long as it's not a carbon copy, I don't mind at all. Chances are, you'll probably get a follow from me. *wink*