"A man does not have himself killed for a half-pence a day or for a petty distinction. You must speak to the soul in order to electrify him." -Napoleon Bonaparte

Paweł

I do understand the merits of working in a team. That wasn't me, though. I preferred to go at it alone. That's how I've been for much of my life, really. It's comfortable for me to go solo on a mission, a job, an op, whatever you want to call it. Now, before that day, I had heard of Star Fox once before. Some Academy dropout and his school buddies formed a mercenary group with dad's savings. At first, I thought they were just two-bit hotshots, and they were. Back then they were little more than hired guns – people you pay to get rid of someone you don't like, or solve some little problem. If you needed a bigger, better solution with experienced, professional people to solve a substantial problem however, you'd avoid guys like Star Fox. So, I was surprised when they approached me and offered me a job. Their leader, James McCloud (I called him Jim), told me he even had a ship for me, some prototype starfighter from Space Dynamics. They called them "Arwings." Don't ask me where they got the name from, Jim never gave me a straight answer. Obviously they didn't research who I am, since I run around the 'verse with my own personally modified JS-9, a museum piece from the Ruthenian Empire. It's not the most glamorous rig in the galaxy, but it gets the job done for me, and saved my ass more times than I'd care to admit. I even have a name for her: Nadia. After a while, I realized that their bite was way more than their bark. Maybe that's why it ended the way it did for Jim.

Everyone always remembers important days by the weather, don't they? Well, I'm no different. When Jim and his pals came up to me with the offer, it was a hot day. Oh so very hot. A dry heat, thank God. Humidity kills leather, and I've got a fondness for leather jackets. Of course I wore one that day, a full-on white jacket. It's hard to keep clean, but the sleek look is killer. Jim, his pals and I met in a public place, Hexagon Park in Corneria City. As the name suggests, it's shaped like a hexagon. Green lawn and small trees lined the edge, and the rest of it was smooth stone. There was a moderately sized playground with nice, clean, sleek… ah, what do you call those things? Well, the things you see at a children's playground, they were there, and they looked cared for. Nearly everyone was wearing shorts. It wasn't that loud, but you couldn't whisper to someone and expect them to hear it. The kids were playing around in the playground, running and screaming all over the place, with their parents sitting on benches watching them or even going knee deep in the fun, running around the playground with their little ones. Out of the, oh, hundred or so people there, I was probably one of five people armed in the whole park. So Jim drives up in some Oldsmobile (it still used gas!) with a symbol of a red fox running spray-painted onto the side. He parks the thing curbside, gets out and pays the meter with a few coins, then waltzes towards me with some stupid strut. His blaster, a RAP Model 9, was just hanging there almost totally out of its holster, like he's some Old West gunslinger or some silly thing like that. His fur was a bit dark for a fox, and those sunglasses did way more than just shield his eyes from the sun. He had merc gear too: a flight jacket, thick boots, a tight suit underneath his jacket, a scarlet scarf hung loosely around his neck (why he wore that scarf on that hot day is still beyond me). His buddies were dressed very similarly too, just without the sunglasses and scarf. To Jim's right was Jeremiah Hare, a rabbit. A little short compared to Jim. Built. Athletic. He probably could crush some greenhorn's throat, no problem. On Jim's left, Richard Dengar, some pig. Literally, he was fat. Probably weighed… 300 or so pounds. I'm surprised he managed to put on that tight suit. I stood in virtually the exact center of the park, a strawberry banana smoothie in my hand. I sucked some of it through a straw when Jim trotted up to me.

"Paweł Chmielnicki," he said. He even pronounced it correctly (PAH-vew hmYEL-nitski), a welcome surprise coming from a Cornerian. Most Cornerians tend to butcher names like mine. It's ok, it's not like they actually know anything when it comes to little foreign things like that. Hmph. Maybe that's the problem with the 'verse – people not knowing things. Maybe that was Jim's big problem. His skills weren't, though. I found that out quickly. His two pals didn't speak much, I think.

"Call me 'Paul'," I replied as I extended my hand. Jim shook it, and so did his two pals.

"Paul, ok," he said. "Listen Paul, I'm gonna be quite frank – Star Fox is looking for a guy like you. In fact, we're looking for you." I kept sipping my smoothie. "You get that, don't you? Of course you do, you're a smart man, Big Guy." Hm. 'Big Guy.' That was just the first of a whole throng of nicknames he had for me, for everyone else on the team. I kind of liked that quirk about Jim. He always gave nearly everyone at least one nickname. For his two pals, the nicknames were the names he'd later use for them virtually all the time. Jeremiah Hare was 'Peppy' on account of his lively personality. Richard Dengar was 'Pigma' since he was fat, although Jim had too much respect for his friend to say that to his face. Jim usually called me 'Paul,' and I was perfectly ok with that, and he was perfectly ok with me calling him 'Jim.'

"I don't think you can afford me," I said bluntly. I took a sip from my smoothie as Jim stared at me behind those jet-black sunglasses of his. His two buddies darted between staring at me and Jim, waiting for something to happen. In reality it was a few seconds, but it felt like five minutes of just nothing. Jim smiled, and chuckled, after those few seconds.

"What makes you say that, Paul?" he asked. "What makes you think a guy like me can't afford death incarnate that is in the form of this draconic masterpiece known as you?" Jim was kissing up to me, and from that point on, I had him on my finger for the whole negotiation. Or at least, I thought. He was leading me on, the sly bastard.

"Even if I wanted to work with a team," I started, "which rarely happens, I want 50,000 credits up-front. My rate's 1500 credits a week." Peppy's and Pigma's eyes went wider than saucers, and both of their jaws dropped.

"James, you're not serious-" said Peppy before he was stopped by Jim with a hand gesture.

"Done," said Jim affirmatively. The little smirk on my face vanished like a ghost. I was shocked. No negotiation. No hesitation. Just like that. Then I realized something: he had money. If he had money, one of two things was happening then and there. One: his parents were richer than I thought. Two: it was his team that took down Argo Sendnar, the notorious space pirate hiding out on Rhodokia. Sendnar's bounty was the biggest ever posted in the Uzayglore System, 50 million credits. Since there's no income tax over there, every single credit was paid in full to team Star Fox. That meant to me that Star Fox was way more skilled than I first thought. Appearances can be deceiving, it seems. Now, Jim's readiness to accept my terms was a big factor in convincing me to sign up, but it wasn't what pushed me over the edge. He kept talking to me, is what pushed me. "Let's you and I walk," said Jim. So, we did.

We rounded Hexagon Park, my smoothie disappearing over the lap we took, and we spoke.

"How old are you, Paul?" he asked.

"83," I replied. Now, that may sound old to you, but to me, that's young, young, young. Hell, I'm still technically a babyface among my people. We can live to 300, even 400 years, no problem. It's considered such a sad event when one of us dies before 100 - too young, they would say. "This is actually the first time I've been back here since my twenties. Back on Corneria."

"What have you done between then and now?" Jim asked.

"Oh, almost everything," I answered. "I mostly wandered around as a hired gun, solving problems for a fee. Sometimes I waived the fee. But, I always won in the end. I had to, or else I'd be dead. At the very least, I didn't lose too much."

"So, I can consider you a man of great experience and talent?"

"I guess you can."

"Tell me… How has it been working alone?" By this time, my smoothie was finished. I tossed it into a trash can as we passed by it, then I went to answer Jim's question, shoving my fists into my jacket's pockets.

"It's been just fine," I replied. "I prefer working alone. It means I don't have to worry about anyone else but me, especially when it comes to pay, food, rent, stuff like that."

"Ah," uttered Jim. "Why?" I stopped at that. He and his pals stopped too. It took me some time to answer that question. I just blurted out some random answer not to make the awkward silence longer. I still don't really know why. Jim had a way of asking questions that stopped you and got you thinking. That's another little part of him that made him a cut above the rest, or at least, someone different. Radically different. And he knew it. And him knowing that made him terrifying in his own special way, although, he did have a whole lot of other things going for him.

"It's just how I operate," I answered simply. "I work best that way." Jim nodded silently. We kept walking.

"What if you had backup?" questioned Jim. "Every single time you stood alone against the hordes, the faceless masses, there was actually another by your side? And another? And yet another in the distance with you in their sights, watching over you? And two more in the air making sure nobody was going to drop a bomb onto you? And one piloting the mothership that would whisk you away from that world if things got too hot?"

"I think… that wouldn't be such a raw deal for me," I said, conceding to Jim's point. I admit, being alone is a double-edged sword. You're on your own, but then again, you're on your own. If you screw up, there's nobody to catch you. You just hit the pavement at full-speed, and if you're really unlucky, you're dead. "So, you've got the money to afford me, and you've got the team to back me up. You're also the real deal: you're no greenhorns. At least, not too green. But still… Why you guys? Why don't I just join up with the Flying Brigade?" Now, at this time, Jepkorir's Flying Brigade were the meanest, baddest mothers in the valley, if you get my drift. Brutally efficient. Willing to take any contract if the price is right. Asha Jepkorir was a bit… okay, she was completely insane. But by God, she was the most dangerous woman in the galaxy at one point. They were good people as allies, and terrifying adversaries. They messed us up good, I can tell you that.

"Do you agree with the Flying Brigade?" inquired Jim. "Can you really see yourself taking orders from Asha Jepkorir?" He had a point there: Jepkorir was a bloodthirsty madwoman. She and I would've butted heads so much she would've slit my throat herself in the dead of night after mounting me for four hours straight. I'm pretty sure she was close once or twice, too. He kept talking. "The McMurdos are common criminals. Team Omicron are just a bunch of losers. The Thunderbolts of Toutatis… that's those Cerinian warriors, right? They'd never accept you and your foreign ways. And you don't approach Omega Force, Omega Force approaches you. But here at Star Fox, our hand is outstretched and ready to take yours. All you have to do, Paul, is reach out."

Jim stopped, and outstretched his hand. I stared at it for a short time, barely hearing the "whaddya say" he blurted out. I admit, I wasn't really thinking hard about the decision, I made it the moment he asked me why I kept working alone. I was thinking about what would happen once the shit hit the fan, once the inevitable passed. Once the team fell apart, one way or another. It always happens. Small merc groups have good runs for years then just collapse, either under their own weight, from infighting, or from another group or a collection of groups crushing them like cockroaches. A few times a group just disappeared because they didn't get any more jobs. When that happens it's just sad as all Hell.

"Deal," I replied to Jim, shaking his hand. Then Jim told me where to meet him and his 'mothership' at the Central Spaceport. He called it the Great Fox Zero, said it was just a stopgap until he got the actual Great Fox. The actual Great Fox is a far cry from the Zero but don't get me wrong: the Zero was indeed a fine vessel, more than spacious enough for all the other people we picked up over the years. Thank God too, I certainly had some… private moments with a certain lady I know aboard the Zero. The trio left the park, and I was alone in a scattered grouping of people enjoying their day.

So, I turn to walk back to my ride and there he is. Now, before I said I was one of five people in the park that were armed. There was me, and the three members of Star Fox. That's four. István Fazekas was number five. Magyar. Assassin. Crack shot. Wore a suit whenever he worked, usually for some Underworld client in Novoarkhangelsk up north. For those of you that don't know what Magyars are, they're basically an alien species that sort of looks like a cross between a bird and a dog. They're kind of cute, and the women… man. They're something indeed. Some of them are psionics: the technical term for psychics. István, or Steve as he's usually called, was a low-level psionic. He couldn't see the future or anything like that, but he could read an unprotected mind or lift a small object. Anything more than that wore him out quickly. Steve's… well, I may not love him, and sometimes I even hate him, but I certainly respect him, especially since I once saw him blow some poor fool's head clean off from 2000 meters with one shot. And there he was, just standing there, wearing some cheap tan suit. Now, I didn't see his blaster, but I knew. I knew he was carrying. He always does.

"What was that about?" he asked me. He already knew the answer to that.

"Nothing important," I replied.

"That was James McCloud," stated Steve.

"You're very observant."

"What in God's name were you doing talking to that bumpkin from the booniedocks?"

"Hey, he approached me. He offered me a position on their team."

"You? A member of Star Fox?" Steve smirked, and chuckled. "Don't debase yourself that much, Paul."

"You mean to your level?" I quipped.

"Savage, my friend," replied Steve. One of his hands was buried in his blazer's pockets. His black loafers clacked on the pavement as his foot jostled up and down, one of several tics of his. "You're actually considering it though?"

"Yeah. I mean, I already shook his hand. Officially, I think, I'm part of Star Fox."

"So, you, what? Analyze enemy shields? Get chased by baddies in ships until James sweeps in to save you? Oh, don't tell me. You're the token Sclav!" I laughed a bit at that.

"I'm guessing I'm the heavy hitter for them," I answered. "You know, you can ask them for some work if you want to. I'm guessing they're going on a recruiting drive." Now, Steve usually operates as a loner, like me. Actually, that's what he does most of the time. Except for when he joined Star Fox. Sometimes I ask him why he signed up, and he never tells me. Shady bastard almost never tells me anything. But hey, that's him. He's all business.

"Yeah, I might as well," said Steve. "After all, at least I won't get too bored." That's the closest thing I got to a straight answer from Steve ever concerning his joining of the team. And like the enigma he is, when the team started… downsizing, he was gone, like a dream in the morning. Later I asked Steve why he left, and he told me he saw the writing on the wall. I think he got scared things were getting out of control for us, and by that time they really were. He's a weasel, that Steve, always looking out for himself. Hmm. I can't blame him though - this 'verse is downright maniacal sometimes. Some time after all that mess he told me that both of us made a deal with the Devil, and we were the luckiest sons of bitches alive to leave practically unscathed.

I don't believe I made a deal with the Devil at all, not back then, and certainly not now. I look back on my time in Star Fox as some of my best and happiest years. They went from some team I ran with to an extension of the people I call my family, and that's a select roster. God… I genuinely loved some of them like siblings, and I hated it whenever one of them was gunned down.

When I heard that Jim died, I remember I was speaking with several high-ranking members of the White Movement. I work for them from time to time: it's profitable, and I don't care much for their politics. That day was a cold one, and it was winter in the Cornerian North, so it was midday and dark outside. Peppy called me and said that Jim was dead, shot down on Venom by Dr. Andross's goons after Pigma stabbed them in the back. After the call, I walked outside of the manor I was in and just looked up and stared at the sky. The firmament, the ancients called it, dotted with small beacons of light. Out there was Jim, lying in the mangled heap that was his Arwing. I stared. Just… stared. It didn't matter how cold there was, how much snow on the ground there was, I stared for what seemed like hours. There were no tears, but there was… there was sorrow.

When I met up with Fox again, he grew up a lot since he and I last saw one another. He still called me "Uncle Paulie." God… I was really an uncle back then. I promised to the kid I'd find Pigma and Andross and slay them both. I'd have their pathetic heads roll away from their lifeless bodies, and burn everything they knew and loved. But… Fox beat me to it. He blasted Andross to bits and later Pigma too. Fitting.

But between the day in question, the day I joined Star Fox, and the day I left, was a whole decade of… legend. Those years are the reason Star Fox are considered the baddest mothers in the valley nowadays. I'm proud to have been there, to have been a part of Star Fox. I'm proud of having fought beside James McCloud. I'm proud to see what his son grew up to be. I'm even proud of Wolf, even though he's a wannabe hardass these days. Back then he was just a cub, wide-eyed and eager to jump aboard Star Fox. Too bad he turned bad, he was a good kid. Cocky, but good. But the one thing I'm most proud of? The one thing I think was the greatest part of Star Fox? We got freaking rich, my friend!