No, I Don't

by Ixode

A young pilot now-famous war hero, wracked with the weight of his current occupation and past actions, will now face a journey where his beliefs and morality will be tested at the hands of a previous enemy. With threats and danger abound, could the very enemy before him be the source of his self-discovery? What he does know is that nothing will be simple again. Fox/Wolf

7. Chapter 6: Subterfuge

Act One

Chapter 6: Subterfuge

"So, I'm just a boy, a twig, and now a munchkin. Hah, whatever. Munchkin my ass. But the one-eyed ogre bit? Now that was a good one. Serves that brute right." Legs tottering with unrest, Fox paced around the perimeter, crammed within the tight box of an elevator as it rolled downward. "Yet, he did seem to enjoy that line as much as I did. I'll need to upstage that brawny oaf with something more clever."

The interlude of mutual laughter and camaraderie was sure to be a passing influence. Yet a feeling of weightlessness nipped at his heels, giddiness fueling the infrequent but benign audacious risk. Rubbing his hands together, Fox brewed up a few spare quips to lock and load for an opportune time.

How about this one. Ahem. Hey, Wolf! It's a shame you lost your eye, but look on the bright side! Your vision's lack of depth now matches the lack of depth in your personality! Or your life, for that matter! Oh ho. That's a groaner. Methinks the eye jokes are too on the nose now - practically low-hanging fruit.

Next one on the roll: Wolf is such a hopeless drunk that if a nurse draws a blood sample, it might just be 100% pure alcohol - or his next Bloody Mary. Wolf O'Donnell? More like Wolf OD, am I right? Huh? As in overdose? Yeah. Like his initials? OD - get it? I do, but it's kind of juvenile, isn't it?

If you're so great, then you try one, oh prince of perpetual, highbrow humor. Let's see… oh yeah. You've made some fantastic progress reputation-wise in five years, Wolf. At one point, you were plagiarizing my dad's style and title, shamelessly licking Andross boots at every beck and call, and dressed like you were auditioning for every lousy guy stereotype in a cheesy, low-budget action film. And now look at you! You're much, much older. Time sure flies when you're a piece of shit.

I mean, that is pretty funny, but is this a battle of wits or a standup comedy skit? Where would you ever use that off the cuff? True, true. It has to be natural and played off the moment. Back to the drawing board again.

Mischief glimmered off a satisfied smirk. "Either way, next time, I'll roast him really good. Yeah, I'm talking third-degree. So much that the burn ward at the clinic will need a free room after I'm done with him."

This was their definition of speaking terms.

To shed the orthodox traditions of civility, the low-arched formal bows and curtsies, and all the time-honored humility for loved ones and dear friends. Trading a knuckled fist and the high-speed dog fights for a duel of nettles and wordplay. But a word can still strike, maim and ache, and be raised like a buckler to thwart, deflect or parry. Better this than their bloody matches inked onto the annals of history. Better this than the puncture of stitched wounds from his rival's dreaded gun affixed with a bayonet.

The rivalry of hero and villain would simply exist in another medium, transmuted like particles of matter to another state of existence. Malice, once densely solid, now melted and evaporated under the warmth of a young bonfire of concord, ashes dispersing with grisly trace reminders of the past. Memories still pervasive, wounds too deep and destined to scar, time and persistence yet to finish out their roles. For the very winds of fate were perverse in their fickleness, indeterminate as to whether justice would settle for recompense, or if the barrier of malice was destined to reconstruct and solidify once more.

The learned behavior of violence and the battlefield was all they have ever known - the very basis of their relationship built upon hostility. Like children born of war who spent their days cradling a gun, where death needed no explanation perched upon their parent's knee, the cries of the fallen were their lullabies to rest. Games of hide and seek to remain hidden for harrowing hours. To be prone, shivering, and plastered in frozen dirt, hands pasted to their mouths to soften their chattering teeth - anything that might alert their enemies. Their grueling efforts were rewarded with the prickling, illuminating new dawn and a stretch of tender bones cracking in relief. But the respite was pruned before its harvest could thrive, for the game was doomed to play the next eve - evermore.

Now, these children have been kidnapped from the battlefield and abandoned in a new world. Here, in the bustle of cities and the hush of suburbia, the population spoke a peculiar foreign tongue. The people gestured with shaking hands that curved to another's touch - not their blaster. Their dewy eyes and smiles leaking exploitability, and all filled with rambunctious laughter that belied the dangers of the world. How could they be so naïve? So poised in their vulnerability? A warrior could never speak in greetings nor farewells beyond the flying hiss of a bullet or the clamor and grind of locked blades in a stalemate.

In war, instinct was the warrior's language of choice. A unique line of communication that shared the same speaker and recipient: themselves. Concerned only with negotiating and maneuvering through the cacophony of agonizing voices in their heads, a mire of fears and doubt rudderless without sovereignty in temperance. All but petty nuisances compared to the magnificence and glory for survival. Until self-preservation assumed control like a hack to rewire the mind, deprogramming the consciousness - the identity. Replaced by egoism, dogmatic and domineering, who screeched decrees to resist death's immobilizing terror and to combat the temptation of egress as if it were the sole mortal enemy.

When the dust of battle cleared, their opponent slumped to the ground, convulsing like a machine drained of its fluids. Staring down at one's feet, clenched hands shuddering with guilt, caked with blood - indistinguishable from whether the source was one's victim or one's own. At last, instinct relieved from its command, floating on air to tender with a soothing pat of the head, a declaration of success. Classical conditioning - gentle, sweet nothing to whisper in the victor's ear - justifying their eternal existence over the corpse they stepped over. For truly, death indeed had a heart - and it beat from within.

The pirate lord was no ordinary foe with which Fox could rely solely on instinct to claim. The aggression and hawkishness that seeped amidst his grinning, glistening fangs - a power that bled off his form more effortless than breathing. An unspoken might so grand and substantial that it threatened to subsist in a corporeal form, shrouding like the very smoke that drifted with every rekindle of a fresh, leathery cigar. Hooking the world around him, luring only to later divert, never knowing where his intentions begin or end, disguising the trump card of a tie of two fingers behind his back.

He specialized in the guile of cloaks and daggers, games of attrition his forte. The Machiavellian stratagems built upon colossal stacks of contingencies, a potential backup plan for every pawn sacrificed for the king's head. But the opponent across the board must be of a lofty caliber for the game to ever pry interest away from his ruminations. To be immovable and unbending, refusing to curl into the ball to be kicked across the field, or let meekness flatten their form and trampled across like a doormat. Lastly, possessing the nerve to roll up the very welcome mat and batter up the thrown barb right back to a home run.

Even now, the strategist did not solely deal in tactics. No, his duels were akin to a dance, for what were words and actions if not reactionary? From the coarse drawl of seduction in his voice, every offhand slip of a jagged canine from his muzzle, to the boxing cadence of forearms raised to counter off a jerk reaction. All choreographed movements, others left to muscle memory but flowed with noted finesse and precise rhythm mastered by few else, back off the wall and on the dance floor with no second chances. To revel in the brilliance of the moment - lost in passionate intensity before the final note of their spar ended.

Perhaps only the greatest of warriors knew of this secret. The ideal tools of survival were not just skill and strength but also the emergence of foresight, the balance of instinct, and embracing spontaneity with equal concentration. To plan, to exist, to improvise. For what good was a fighter if not resourceful, and who could adapt to the rhythm of battle? No match was ever static - victory never granted until the last bell tolls.

Yet, Fox could not help but feel this conclusion was immature. Surely no striking secret could ever be that simple to comprehend; it would be far too easy to digest and be replicated by the masses. From a rise in perspective to see the other side of the metaphoric construct, the puzzle was missing pieces to a whole, a potential fourth element of what distinguished an exceptional warrior from the ordinary stock. An echo of a venerable voice then trickled into his ear:

And don't ever forget this golden rule, Fox: always know-

"Arrival at Floor - Basement. Welcome to the LowSector. Please enjoy your stay."

Like a speeding train upon rusted tracks, the elevator rumbled before coming to a halt. Stepping out, Fox swallowed a dry gulp, clearing his inner ear with a single pop from the drastic drop of elevation. He licked a bead of sweat from his lip as a stale yet rancid stench of sulfur and rot drifted across Fox's fur. Heat tended to rise in any normal circumstance, yet the LowSector was so confining in its warmth that it verged on sweltering. Tarnished fans for ventilation besmirched the walls in every direction, the energy circuits barely crackling with life, humming to merely circulate the air without a measly drop of cooling relief.

" 'Enjoy my stay,' huh? That's a tall order. I'm guessing I didn't take the scenic route. Would explain the lack of traffic." The pilot's toes curled from the squelch of grit on the sole of his boots. "Mental note to self - point out to Wolf about his skewed financial distribution of Sargasso and clear bias for the Upper. The cleaning budget down here sure could use a boost." His tail bent upward, careful to not brush any gunk on his fur. "Assuming there even is one."

The barren passageway Fox journeyed down was less a hallway and more a cavernous tunnel like an emergency bomb shelter or an underground sewer. Dim lighting comparable to trifling glow sticks lined the outer walls. Dust sifted down like flurries of snow mixed with soot. A trail of rubbish scraped upon his new boots, which were outfitted with a grip for sufficient traction to wade through a thick layer of slippery muck. Fox's fur lifted upon his nape at the sight of emaciated bodies sleeping under forts of cardboard boxes and soiled blankets. A constellation of discarded plastic bags glistened among the broken shards of syringes at their feet. Far too enthralled with their own compulsive diversions to notice their squalid environment.

The pilot's eyes diverted and zigzagged across the steel cracks upon the walls. Black mildew crept in their crevices like scabs over cracked skin, paired with the twisted lines of motley graffiti. From within the swirl of paint and fungus laid a massive red arrow pointing north, containing a rusted metal placard that read: Lows - To the Trade Hub. Fox snapped his fingers - bingo. Dr. Erwood once described the black market of Sargasso, a place of depravity and illicit venture that tempted criminals from every edge of Lylat to purchase their choice of prohibited selections. An enterprise that infamous and hectic assuredly would attract one possible lead to where his query may reside.

A hum of machinery interrupted Fox's discovery. Arching over his shoulder, he caught a once hidden security camera extending outward from the ceiling, zooming in on his location. Most likely operated by the Sargasso AI, diligent in tracking his movements, streaming the feed live directly to its master. No doubt his nemesis was witnessing this from his king's court of an observatory, enthroned in his leather lounge chair, knuckles propped and laced on the sharp edge of his chin. With the other hand, a chokehold grasp to another victim of uncorked liquor, topping off swills in a crystal glass. Ever the paragon of villainy. At least that's what the age-old fables and allegorical themes of good triumphing over evil would have it.

Fox crossed his arms and aimed a candid stare directly at the lens, half tempted to flip the bird full frontal. Appalled at the insolence of being so intently observed, his steps being hounded like by an overprotective guardian - or another paparazzi lurking for that one keen mishap or unflattering reaction shot to score gold. Yet, the thought of Wolf critiquing his efforts without a chance to defend himself really drove the dagger home. With every blunder, the possible tic of muscle that hopped from the lupine's jaw, cheek to arched brow - piecing together one hell of a schadenfreude-laced sneer. Instead, the pilot camouflaged his ire with a cheeky wink-and-finger-point combo before ambling towards the direction of the arrow. Don't ever let them see you sweat, kiddo. Not a second time.

"So, Fox, you're really going through with this." The pilot warbled out under his breath, focusing on his voice as equal distraction and company. What he wouldn't give for a flashlight - even a nightlight - to navigate around a pitfall of more rubbish. "Of all the things you could have done to escape, like finding an escape pod or making a dash to the Arwing, but no! You had to play dress up and pretend to be a pirate for a day!"

I should have just kept feeding Wolf more booze. Maybe if he were drunker, he would have been easier to convince to let me go unconditionally.

Now to find some Venomian spy out of thousands of people that all could potentially beat me silly, gift wrap my ass and put in a box - with a ribbon on top - yes, that too, and hand it to back us. You're welcome, and happy holidays, McCloud.

A slow epiphany built at Fox's core, threatening to burst to an eruption. The once cocky expression toward the camera diminished and replaced by the skittishness wracking his limbs. The pilot then smacked his forehead with a blunt, open palm.

His squadmates. His few close friends. The contacts with the Cornerian Military. As soon as Fox could retrieve his personal computer from Wolf, he knew what dread was waiting for him stored in its electronic database.

The backlog of concerned, exasperated texts and emails crammed and overloading his data - no doubt at least a hundred were penned by Peppy's disgruntlement and wagging fingers. Granted, Fox's reputation had steadily nosedived over the past year; he was now infamous for his few day excursions at the drop of a hat, or the 'mental-health rehab trips,' as they were lovingly dubbed by Falco. Habitual enough that Slippy's blitz of inquires regarding his return notched to a dozen on a good day. But if word ever got out of a duel in a pirate's den turned into a recon mission, the usual anecdotal half-truth dabbled in a canvas of whiteout mixed of white lies wouldn't cut it.

Forget about the friends and associates - Fox McCloud knew the name of his veritable and most legendary enemy: the media. The weavers of tall tales snooping to uncover the one loose thread in the hero's yarn, unraveling the truth he desperately wished hidden. Their notorious talent of sewing any loose, second-rate threads in the mix to spin any good intentions into an incriminating tabloid headline. It was not accuracy they cared for if it meant a completed product fresh off the press and rushed out to a voracious viewership, hungry to pick apart another carcass of a celebrity's privacy. The press would have more than a field day with such a scandalous revelation - an outbreak of ripe material to last for a year-long event.

Fox McCloud, beloved hero and mercenary for the people, now fallen to disgrace. Could the Cornerian Military be covering up his illegal associations with the dastardly, degenerate himself - Wolf O'Donnell? Full story at eight this evening, only on Corneria Network News channel. Jeez, thanks, brain. You always love to stir up my anxiety. Why not stir up some confidence for me instead.

"Remember, Fox, you're just doing this to get out of this hell hole. This isn't a favor to Wolf. Just honoring a ceasefire between us - that's all." Walk shifted to a waddle, knees occasionally locking. "Just stick with the plan. Find the spy, get rid of them, and head home with as little fanfare as possible. Easy-peasy, Venomian-lemon-squeezy." The pilot scrubbed a hand over his face. "Wow, that was awful. What did that even mean?"

Why do I think about that one phrase Dad loved to say. It didn't even make sense until now. To be honest, he loved all his catchphrases equally. But if it's the one that I'm thinking of, then-

'Hang out with a cobbler long enough, and eventually, you're going to get your shoes shined'. Yeah. That's the one. I hate it even more now, hearing myself say it.

But that doesn't apply to us. Of course. It is - in no way - applicable to us.

Never. Never.

Even when the day would long be past Fox, the events at the Observatory with Wolf only an hour ago would be just as vivid and surreal. The apology and its unforeseen aspects would be unraveled like a VHS tape on rewind, only to suffer under endless playback, pauses, and repeats of a looped segment over and over. Every heartful word that ached in its delivery, the clawed hand riveted to his shoulder, and all the implications of the pirate's regret scrutinized. Should that reconciliation have gone any differently? Could it have been better? But no matter the branching path or alternate scenario, each separate outback drew back to the unchanging conclusion.

The firm handshake between mercenaries. A deal written only in gauzy, transparent words. To find the Venomian spy or bust.

The methodical yet agonizing approach of working with Wolf would most likely be his highest chance for survival. What was the alternative? To risk escape and storm the hangar bay guarded by the Wolf Pack, all decked in military-grade automatic weaponry? Or worse, the swift ambush of a reptilian madman lurking and dancing for his arrival? A turned back - even when armed - was a pitiful defense against an assassin's blades, each simultaneously digging between broken ribs, his last breath suffused with the taste of blood and steel.

Fox twitched his ears from a gust of wind that whistled like an unearthly sigh. A light sprouted in the distant horizon, the wind growing stronger, harmonizing along with other chords: a ensemble of hushed tongues, the rustle of plastic bags, and the stampede of feet upon creaking floorboards, all multiplying in volume with every step forward. Until every individual sound clamored together, striking from all sides to form one dissonant strain, the chaos synonymous to the immortal hustle of Corneria City's unwearied streets. At last, he arrived at the heart of the hive itself, drones skittering about the near-hundred stalls, which lined the hive like a massive convention hall. Time was indeed money, and greed was the grease to the rickety wheel that kept it turning.

Claustrophobia caged the held breath in Fox's chest. The blur of merchants and pirates sprinted about as if the walkways were hovercrafts zooming during rush hour. Heedlessly strolling through a speeding cyclone seemed less daunting of a task than to navigate through the bustling marketplace. Every perpendicular path or fork weaved to another seemingly infinite loop of passageways and another pool of people. Like a foot dipped to test the chill of water, Fox placed one heedful step to the edge of the crowd, only to be swept up in the vortex of traffic, caught in the trap of a literal helter-skelter of migrating bodies of shoved elbows and blunt shoulders.

Day and night had no home in the black market of the Lows. No overhead sky pulsated with the radiant light of day or the dusk that sunk and smoked its alabaster glow afar to every hedge or thicket. Atmosphere settled for nicotine-stained, tobacco-smoke clouds, saturated with a ubiquitous, vermilion light that highlighted every etch of the dour faces engaged in shady transactions. Fox turned left to a merchant equipped in a bulletproof vest, shouting like an auctioneer to sell his mountain of illegal weapons - the heavy-duty, military-grade kind of illegal. In his hands were a grenade launcher smudged with red and blue streaks upon its stock handle, a feeble attempt to erase the Cornerian Army's emblem of the planet, stars, and wreath.

This was the actual boiler room of Sargasso. Bodies moving coin and goods like coal tossed to the flames, fueling every second of energy of the pirate stronghold's operations. Unaware that they stood within the blaze themselves, destined to collapse and congest with ash from its searing pipes. The weight of heavy pockets served as their ball and chain, all lined in rows, confined in their cells of market stalls. Greed sealed their door and bars, the need consumed and strangled like the coil of a constricting snake or the wrap of a thorny vine. For the more its victims struggle when bound by the snare, the tighter and deeper the bind snuffed the circulation from their limb to their inevitable death.

But there was no true wealth to be had here like in embellished and ornamental halls of the UpperSector. Accounts brimming with credits was naught but feeble deterrents when their coffers off-world still had mere inches of space to spare. If the UpperSector was shaped in the likeness of Wolf's unassailable pride, then the Lows were born from his gluttony. Perhaps in the end, Sargasso was never segmented in its three layers but existed as one entity. Whole and without prejudice. Magnificent, but impoverished of contentment, and equally as miserable.

This wasn't greed - just desperation.

Finding a safe, vacant spot between stands to catch his breath, Fox unfolded Leon's letter that he'd stuffed in his pocket and skimmed its contents once more. The Quartermaster, huh? Just where would someone with that established title reside amongst a maze of shambling market stalls and tents?

A savory scent faintly tugged at Fox's nostrils, his nose wrinkling from its appetizing lure. Peppered with intrigue, he raised his snout high in the air, and the flavors landed upon his taste buds quickly formed into visuals. A smoke of charred meat dashed in spice, fishes pan-fried and sautéed in butter, and loaves of toasted-golden brown bread enticing him like a siren's call. Fox wiped his mouth as his belly rumbled with a swift but cramping appetite that roared and demanded a closer inspection.

A pair of monkeys worked within a tireless, rusted food truck nestled on worn cement blocks. On closer inspection, the primates were marmosets. Tiny but astute, expressive faces, enwreathed by cloves of white fur shaped like wide ears or knotted pigtails. All keen details that deciphered them from their distant cousins. One was in the back performing an acrobatic finesse of nursing every burner on a stovetop, the prep work of cutting a medley of root vegetables, and painting egg wash on newborn loaves of bread to be kindled in the oven. In her senior years, the other was working at the counter register, unboxing materials with the rip and crumple of cellophane, ready to pre-pack meals at the counter.

Her mane was a bed of mussed curls tied back, exposing the grooves and dents of aged grey fur upon her forehead. She bagged with cursory consideration. Every finely seasoned vegetable or medium-temperature meat cooked to juicy perfection just flung to the side of the counter as one would dispose of rotting waste. There was no room left for joy in work when survival was preeminence. A deep-seated grudge with a dearth of effectual focus - a boiling temper raged underneath thin, puffy eyes, cooled only by inundated labor.

"What do you want?" The older woman watched Fox idle in a daydream, along with the tinge of drool off his muzzle. Hemming her throat, sharp and stiff words cut through the air, despite her rigid posture. "If you were looking for the beef and horseradish special, you're too late. Already sold out. The lunch rush is over, and we're prepping for dinner."

Horseradish? Bleh. Fox pinched his mouth tight, never a fan of its vinegary and pungent overtones, or the trickle of acid down the throat, threatening to bile up and taste it all over again. But a chili pepper or a jalapeno? Now there was a heat Fox didn't mind melting his cheeks over.

His tongue instead recoiled at the memory of a celebratory late dinner with the squad, chomping slices of rolled sushi, unaware that a flattened boulder of wasabi was stuck at the base of rice. Green eyes bulged wide, unleashing the floodgates bursting with tears and all of its blinding humiliations. On the bright side, temporary blindness meant he didn't see Falco's fists pounding on the table, beak wide with denigrating laughter - he'd just have to suffer listening to it.

"No special for me today. I was hoping I could ask you a question. I'm looking for the-"

"A question?" The primate's blue-venous hands briefly clenched tight to a brown bag, crinkling its thin form. "We don't sell answers to questions, not our kind of business. Can't you read?"

The older woman pointed to a ramshackle piece of cardboard barely hanging off a loose nail to the roof of the truck. The listing of various soups, hot and cold sandwiches, and bottled drinks appeared to be shoddily carved out with a butter knife. Fox's ear withered from the burn of shame, cringing as he caught the last item off the drinks list: G-Force Energy - six credits.

There it was: The orange and red logo. An excessive, phony smile that knitted his cheeks to flash every crevice of gum and fang. That extra dash of disingenuous, sensationalist marketing tactics the current youth fawned over. The drink and its excessive traits felt right at home and oddly fitting in a black market stall. Not even Fox McCloud was above the allure of a quick buck - the automatic royalty checks deposited without protest.

You don't need an Arwing like mine to go at light speed! G-Force Energy, the one G-Force that won't knock you out! Stop that. Seriously.

Well, that answered my question if my face would finally be out of production. Has providence ever granted us such a reprieve from embarrassment?

…Wellllll. Yeah, that's what I thought.

"I'll let you know how this works since you like to take your sweet time," the primate spoke in a slow, chastising cadence. "You tell me what you want to eat, I charge you credits, you pay me, and I'll bag up the meal and hand it to you. Either make an order now or make way for someone who can. Got it, hoodlum?"

"Hoodlum?" Fox gritted his teeth behind a frown. "I guess service with a smile might be too much to ask for in Sargasso."

"Drop at least fifty credits, and I'll kiss your ass. How about that?"

The woman's flaky, chapped lips caught Fox's attention just as much as the bitter words that left them. "Lady, I'd pay you a million credits just to keep those dry bread crusts around your mouth away from me."

"B-bread crusts?!" She swept her arms out, brandishing a wooden spoon as if it were a bludgeoning mallet. "Now listen here, you brat! I know how your type works. You think you can play by intimidation and threats, pushing around anyone weaker until you bulldoze them over by your will. But not today - not at this stand you don't!"

Fox crossed his arms, forcing out a cynical laugh. "That's rich, coming from you! You're the only one exhibiting any aggression in the first place! I'm surprised you haven't scared every customer off this station."

From inside the truck's kitchen, a younger marmoset wiped her hands clean with a kitchen rag, shaking her head with a bitter smile as she walked out to tug at the other's sleeve. "Mother." She spoke firm yet tame in her delivery. "Let it go. Now isn't the time to pick fights with a random customer. Especially this one."

"And just why not?!" The wooden spoon pointed to its new target - her own daughter - who looked to be about several years older than Fox. "What harm can such a limp-wristed wimp like him do?"

"What? Limp-wristed? Really?!" The vulpine's face tightened with hot irritation. Hands slipping further in his oversized jacket pockets. "How do you two stay in business like this? Where's the disclaimer on the menu that says any order comes with a free side of harassment?"

"Mother." She gasped with a choke, angling her neck towards Fox. "On the man's collar. The UpperSector insignia!"

The matron leaned forward over the stand, near-sighted eyes narrowed for clarity. She then squeezed her eyes shut and instantly drew back, biting her tongue. More ashamed out of wounded pride than out of tangible fear.

"Fine. Take all the time you need, your grace." Her frown frothed with sarcasm. "You might bear the mark of Star Wolf and their cronies, but can you at least leave a tip this time? The only real threat of our business closing down is if you and your thugs keep swiping meals for free!"

"Sorry for how you've been treated in the past, but I think there's been a misunderstanding." Resting his hands on his hips, Fox swished his tail with an assertive twirl. "One, my wrists are not that limp or thin, thank you very much. And two, believe it or not, I'm not actually with Star Wolf. I just need to know where to find the Quartermaster of the LowSector. Do you know where they are? Soon as you help me out, I can be on my way and-"

The older monkey cackled as she pointed to Fox's collar. "Not with Star Wolf? Then where the hell did you pick that up? Which corrupt soul did you mug or gut to get something as valuable as that insignia?"

Fox felt a spike in blood pressure tense on his forehead. Second time cut off. Either this woman cared little for conversational etiquette or had no social awareness of properly carrying one. "Um. I didn't have to mug or gut anyone. Wolf himself gave it to me."

The older marmoset doubled over as if her knees gave out, clutching to her grease-stained gown. Her eyes dilated white with shock. Fox may have well slapped her senseless.

"You're joking. You must think me completely insane if you expect me to believe that you're not with Star Wolf, but the Lord himself gave you his own signature emblem as easily as an asteroid discards its dust." She cocked her head before shaking it. "I've been here long enough to know who the real authority heads are in this place. Only five men have ever borne that specific form of the insignia - and two of them are now with the opposition."

"Just five men? Say what now?" Fox gazed down to his collar - decorated with the silver Wolf Pack emblem - its shine nevertheless glistened in the Low's subdued red hues. "Wolf told me that this insignia was reserved for his elite group. The 'inner circle,' as he described it."

"If the Lord truly did give you that insignia, then why wouldn't he tell you about the differences in its design?"

"I…well. That's a good question. I don't know why, exactly." The pilot looked between both mother and daughter, blinking eyes pleading with the hopes they would fill him in.

"From what I've witnessed, all residents of the UpperSector bear that mark, yet there are a few who possess a more intricate design like the one you carry. The majority of the Wolf Pack wear a bronze version, but the only ones that I've ever seen wear it in silver have been the members of Star Wolf themselves." Both mother and daughter nodded in sync. "And I know for a fact Wolf hasn't recruited any recent additions. At least not after that rakish gentleman Mr. Caroso started making his fanciful rounds."

Unpinning the insignia from his jacket, Fox flipped it around to discover one faded name inscribed in the back:

-Andrew Oikonny-

Fox scratched his jaw, crumpling his body posture inward in disbelief. The original four of Star Wolf were even wearing these garish accessories during the Lylat War. Feasibly at one point, this had just been a simple means of identification or a mark of pride of a ragtag mercenary group. Now it was converted to a tool of accessibility and prestige within Sargasso's militarized ranks. A formerly owned insignia from his rival's past squadmate turned into a current enemy. How easily the tides shifted from friend to foe - assuming true friendships were even established, to begin with.

Perhaps it was mere coincidence that Fox now wore that exasperating wimp of a nephew to the mastermind's insignia. Yet, Wolf would never play his hand arbitrarily and without reason. This was no accident or an atypical slip of judgment that Wolf handed him this specific mark. Just what were Wolf's intentions?

Well, it could have been much worse. The only other option would have been to wear Pigma Dengar's. If his rival even had the gall to hand Fox the insignia of the betrayer himself - that would have been a genuinely deplorable low blow, even for Wolf. No doubt Pigma mishandled his symbol as carelessly as he treated his other possessions, left in a film from greasy fingers to the slobbering drool splattering from every word.

"So if you have any lick of common sense or comprehension in that fluffy, baffled head of yours, I suggest you hand that back to its proper owners, lest Wolf's fury burn the entirety of every stall and shop just to retrieve it."

"Mother, what if he's telling the truth? What if Wolf really did give him that? If you keep treating him so discourteously, the only ones who will get caught in this fire will be us!" She then bowed in repentance thrice over so that the kitchen utensils strapped to her belt clanged like chimes on her stand's counter. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please disregard what was just said. She does not always think before she speaks. Her mind has been addled with trauma for some time now since we lost our home during the war."

"Really, Celeste? Even my own daughter insults me. I am only as addled as the thugs that wander this sector, demanding every morsel and credit they can wring out from my grasp." The older marmoset harrumphed as she stomped back inside the tent to the boiling stovetop. The pace of her stirring quickened over her stew, specks of dark liquid lobbed in all directions. "Feel free to get chummy with this loser. I'll be in the back cooking."

Fox sighed, motioning with his hands for everyone to calm down like patting down a campfire. "It's alright. Don't worry about it. Not the first time I've had someone criticize me to my face." He turned with a half-hearted smile to the daughter. "Your mother is wise to be a little suspicious of folks wandering about this sector. The Lows are definitely not the neighborly local farmer's market by any stretch of the imagination. Not the ones I've been to, at least."

"Thank you for understanding my mother's agitation. Empathy is a rarity in a place like this." She nodded with a twitch of curiosity in her neck as if Fox's leisurely attitude was unexpected but appreciated all the same. "She has reason to be defensive, but one day she's going to pick a fight with the wrong pirate who won't take her attitude in stride. If that ever happened, I wouldn't know what to do."

The young woman was the spitting image of her mother thirty years ago, and if stress hadn't aged her fur a ragged grey. Long, brown hair dampened from work, tied back into a ponytail, failing to tame a few bangs that slipped from its hold. Her voice was spirited and sonorous as if every word was capable of being burst into a song. Unlike the family matriarch, her brown eyes were bright with equal receptiveness and curiosity that matched the sweet peach tint of her skin and just a twinge of the shrewdness of street wiles tempered by the Lows.

Despite appearances, she stood upright with a dancer-like grace in posture, almost even regal in form. Her gown was nearly torn at the seams and stained from years of travel, now worn with oils and dried sauces like any dirty cook's apron after serving a rowdy banquet or feast. Fox discerned that the cloth was once of immaculate quality. Even with the blemishes, the delicate embroidery and verdant-dyed silk would have fetched a large sum at any name-brand boutique in the ritzy districts of downtown Corneria City.

"Like you just overheard, my name is Celeste Zaris. And you've already had the pleasure of meeting my mother, Prudence." She offered a nod that was both welcoming and apologetic. "I'll be blunt and say there's something about you that reminds me of someone else. I just can't remember who or what. Have we met before?"

"I don't believe we have, but you might have seen me before, thanks to my line of work. My name, it's, uh-" The hero whispered into a cupped hand. "Fox McCloud. I'm trying to stay low around here, don't want to attract any unwanted attention."

Celeste's eyebrows raised as she leaned forward. "Come again? I think I misheard you."

"Fox McCloud. F-O-X. M- with two C's- plus loud. You know, gallant leader of Star Fox, expert rider of Arwings, liberator of the Lylat war, etcetera etcetera." The pilot then blinked in the realization that the conversation stalled to an awkward shifting of eyes from both parties. With a tilt of his head and shimmy of eyebrows, he directed to the stacked drinks in the glass cooler. "See the cans on the top row with that smiling bastard over there? Sadly, that's me."

Delicate hands carved through Celeste's tousled hair, holding back a bundle and released, the strands effortlessly falling back into place. "Uh-huh. Sure. If you're going to pick a cover, at least make it a believable one." She paused and considered a moment. "Actually, the latest rumor was that Fox McCloud was escorted here a few days ago, but Wolf would never let his former enemy off the hook so easy. That's just not like him. Especially to give him access to the coveted Upper floors."

The marmoset, at last, turned to face the cooler, eyes shifting down every row of Caracal Cola, Dr. Peccary, to the Pape-Tastic-Toon Cactus Juice. "There's no way the Fox McCloud would be strolling around here and speaking to me…now…" at last to the coveted row of energy drinks, G-Force front and center. Mouth falling open, she doubled between the marketed caricature persona and the real hero before her, rebounding over and over until the wires of recognition lit. "Oh god. You really are Fox! Wow, I knew my gut was right about there being something different about your presence. I didn't recognize you at first outside of your uniform."

Crouching against the counter, Fox clapped his shaking hands as if sending prayer or plead to the gods. "Just do me a favor, and please, please, please don't let anyone know that I'm wearing this Wolf Pack outfit. I'd rather not talk your ear off, but just believe me when I say that I'm not affiliated with Wolf in any way. Your silence is worth the weight in gold - no, diamonds! Diamonds fetch more on the market, right?"

Her lips pursed with a few puffs of giggling. "Look, I get it, Fox. There's one phrase that gets said a lot around here - 'All who travel to Sargasso have one thing to trade for each thing they try to hide'. So don't worry, I'll play along and keep this between us."

"Thanks. Finally, someone clever in this dump. You and your mother seem like some of the few normal people around here." Fox rested his hands upon his heart with a sigh of relief. "So, your family runs a small food stall here? Would it be inappropriate to ask for a sample now?"

"Samples are for paying customers only. Same rules apply even for celebrities." Celeste winked with the same curt air of delivery inherited from her mother, just with less bite and a coy appeal. "At least, we are attempting to run a food stall. It was a drastic career change for both my mother and me in comparison to our former lives when we were living on-" An audible frog got trapped in her throat. "… our previous homeworld. My mother and I had to earn credits somehow, so why not open up a little food stand? All people have to eat, whether they be pirates, soldiers, or civilians. It's the best that we can do in our current situation."

"Since I can't sample your product, but I can still smell it, I can at least say it does smell tasty." Fox resisted the urge to loll out his tongue. "Cooking is not one of my fortes, so I admire anyone who can cook a meal that doesn't come out raw and still croaking or overcooked to hell. I'd sooner pay for a pre-prepared meal or eat out than risk every smoke alarm going off on my ship or home."

Celeste's gaze swept across behind her slumped shoulders - behind her, her mother cursed up a storm as she'd accidentally dropped a container of sauce. "Actually, we're somewhat similar in that regard. I never really knew how to cook until I was forced to learn. The honest answer was that I had been forbidden to learn, even." Sighing, she pushed back a thread of loose dark bangs behind an ear. "Although I used to watch the chefs prepare the meals back home, so I remembered a thing or two about cooking. I was just blessed that I retained some of the tricks I picked up through observation, like how to eyeball a piece of synthetic meat to test if it's cooked properly."

"Your chefs, huh? Your family must have been fortunate enough to have some assistance like that." Fox watched the marmoset recoil with a wince; an unconscious detail had slipped off her tongue. "Did something happen to your homeworld recently? Is that why you and your mother are in Sargasso now?"

"Recently isn't the right word to describe it. In my home quadrant of Lylat, there was never a time where peace was in the forecast. War and turmoil are as routine as the passing seasons. It's hard to expect for more - for better - when you are accustomed to the daily violence that wracked the streets, towns, and cities. My family was fortunate enough to have ties with the presiding government and live comfortably before the war. But after its conclusion - after the rebellions - everything changed for the worse." Smoothing out the wrinkles of her dress sleeves, Celeste then rubbed her forearms in self-comfort. "My family is looking for a new start. Let's just say that."

Fox lifted one eyebrow as if to cut through the vagueness. "Well, you and your mother seem more seasoned with pirate culture than I am. I'm still trying to get used to how things work around here."

"Sargasso is still a pirate stronghold, but the LowerSector functions like a free trade area or an open market. This place is just as busy as any other intergalactic airport, visitors coming and going as they please, as bartering and bolstering Wolf's own economic interests is enough of a worthy venture for him to keep his gates open. The undisclosed rule of Sargasso is as long as you don't mess with Wolf and his men, contribute meaningfully and have a purpose, one can remain. Though all currency earned is subject to a 'resident' fee."

"Greedy bastard. Brilliant, but still greedy." The pilot slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "So the fee is like a tax? How much is it, exactly?"

She glanced over her shoulder to a large cupboard wrapped in chains and multiple locks. "Large enough where it can take a chunk out of our profits - the price for protection and safe harbor. The Wolf Pack leaves us alone for the most part, despite the occasional shakedown and stinting on a bill. But if a fight goes down and the security isn't within earshot, anything is fair game. As dangerous as being here is, I figured it's safer to be protected by the Wolf Pack rather than be hunted by them. But if we were out on our own, in another colony off-world or a refugee camp with undertrained militia or none, all it takes is another enemy pirate raid where we could lose everything. And I'm-"

She held a deep breath for several seconds before exhaling out, clearing away impending unpleasant memories. Once warm, mahogany eyes now flashed back with a dullness, clouded and pensive. "I'm not going to live that over again. Never again. Sargasso is a sanctuary compared to our last home."

"Surely this is temporary for the two of you. Sargasso still doesn't scream like the place you can set shop permanently in. If I were in your shoes, I would want nothing more than to give off this hellish station."

"It's the money. It's always about the money. We simply can't afford to do so." Her voice dwindled to a mutter. "When my mother and I arrived here after escaping our last destination, we had a mere two digits worth of credits in our bank accounts. Our goal is to purchase a secured transporter to be dropped off at another colony off-world since the pirates try not to risk any direct flight in Corneria's defense perimeter. From there, we can get a transfer flight to Corneria itself and invoke our refugee rights. But the transporters at the hangars know they are the only source of escape out of here, so they jack up the prices considerably and make a killing off exploiting the refuges. So we're stuck until we can pay the fare."

"Jeez, that's awful." Fox's mouth fell slightly, his features softened. "I had a feeling something troubling like that must be going on. I'm really sorry that your family had to go through all that. I wish there was something I could do."

Celeste's thin, shaped eyebrows drew close together into a pinch, her eyes blinking rapidly. "There's no need to be sorry. We're fine, and we can manage."

An ache tingled in Fox's chest. "Huh? Did I offend you? If that's the case, it wasn't my intention at all."

"I know, but it's not necessary. See it from my perspective: My family is doing everything we can to survive. We can't build a home on good wishes. You're a hero, and people shower you with attention and praise, so you should know what it's like to be given empty, hollow apologizes or wishes as if they know you personally. But they don't really know what it's like, and they never can as much as they want to."

"Oh jeez. I really struck a nerve there." The power in the pilot's voice dwindled to a murmur, wondering just how easily he lost control of the conversation. "I just wanted to offer some kind of acknowledgment of your troubles, rather than just play it off and ignore it."

"I don't want to hear it. You don't know everything we've been through or what we've lost. I-" The young woman's nostrils flared, a hostility needled a greater impetuosity expressed by ever her kin. But the frustration ebbs from her face, an expression now as pale as the oil blotched on her apron. "Please save your regards. Your goodwill and your prayers cannot cure what ails us. It is not I that you speak to repose, just yourself."

Fox barred his tongue, suppressing his own spitting frustrations. He knew this ardent resentment well. How it flew off without concern for how high it lobbed or what hazards await to skewer and crush it when it lands. How it barked and bit at any outreached hand like a rabid, caged animal, unable to discern an enemy from an ally. This is not her speaking. A ticking bomb must settle before it can be dismantled.

Poverty was not always defined by quantitative terms or monetary value. Money can be earned back, a disease can be cured, but what can remedy the impoverished of the heart? Where is the hand that will outreach to the lonely and broken souls in despair? The same hand to wipe away the tears of another or meld one's reassuring warmth in joint, finger-locked hands. But it must be willfully granted and bestowed upon from another if deemed worthy enough in another's eyes. Love was priceless, as many would say - yet in the age of technological superiority, such integrity was in deficit. Its value was now more rare and unobtainable than ever.

Fortune was an unspoken game to be played that often was rigged for a select, chosen few. To win, one had to possess an extraordinary skill or training in a craft to stand out from the crowd. To be blessed with the luck of the draw with a faultless bloodline, desired genetics, and wealthy inheritance. Without it, one was left only the branding of the forsaken - to be invisible in the eyes of the fat-pocketed and well-fed. These refugees hungered as much for the next bowl of stew or sip of clean water as they hunger to be seen and heard. The mortal need of acknowledgment, to be treated as a peer and as an equal - as living. And if one was to be branded as invisible forever, they must self-replicate or settle for a faint memory of a foregone love and ration it for the rest of their days.

"I take back what I said. I meant no disrespect." Fox bowed with a formal, low position, angled down enough to hide the grimace that scrunched his eyes. "It's hard to cut the fat of pity from sympathy, especially when it's not asked for."

A few seconds elapsed, then he resumed a standing position. Eyes fixed and profound, voice steady with composure. "Listen, you're absolutely right that I can relate about how empty a thousand prayers can be if there's no real sincerity behind it or followed-up with action. The devout preach as an easy way of passing along the discomfort they can't digest, yet pat themselves on the back as if they just cured a fatal disease. It's like sending a meaningless card of condolences. Touching, yes, but I'd rather just have the money they spent on a useless piece of paper."

The hero's tone shifted with cautious enthusiasm. "I don't really know you, and you don't know me beyond what you've heard about me. But just know that I want to know and understand. I want to help your family. I'll try to find a way to get you out of here."

"What? You're offering to help despite how we treated you? I didn't mean to guilt you into doing that. I just-" Celeste brought a delicate, curled hand to her collar bone. Hope radiated in her form yet tinged with mistrust. "But, even if you were to do so, just how do you plan on doing that?"

Fox scratched behind his ear. "I don't know how just quite yet, as I'm still missing a lot of my belongings. But I do have a little bit of sway with Star Wolf here - maybe I can work something out. Call in a favor since he does owe me big me right about now."

"How would you even have the influence to do that? Aren't you still enemies?"

"Yeah, we are. I don't think that's changing anytime soon, but I know Wolf would at least consider a request if it came personally from me. Hopefully, he'll grant it without any contingencies or blackmail. I'm trying not to sell my soul just to hang out with him and his band of merry thugs."

The marmoset's confusion flipped into a smile pinned with a timid bite at her lower lip - as if to apologize for her outburst. "Despite what you're wearing, you're far too kind and good-natured to run with the Wolf Pack. Something tells me you would make a terrible pirate."

Fox nodded with glee. "It's one of my deficiencies that I'm more than proud of to possess."

Celeste considered something on the countertop as if selecting a potential item to barter, though her gaze fell on no particular object. She then looked up. "Earlier, you mentioned something about looking for the Quartermaster, right?"

"Uh, yes. I did say that. If you can give me directions, it would really help me out."

"Head to the center of the market. From there, go find the row with the stolen apparel and walk down. He's all the way in the back of the west end of this sector towards the Scavenger's Deck. The workers there rummage through the Wolf Pack's pillage and send it to the appropriate department for use or ship them out for sale. Just keep following the trail of red lights out of the markets. You'll know you're in the right place when the lights dim like an orange sunset. The Quartermaster doesn't care for bright spaces."

"Thanks for your help! Dim like a sunset, got it." Fox clapped his hands in success. "And I know you might not want to hear my good wishes and all that, but I'll say it anyway. Speaking from someone who's been down on his luck, keep hanging on and don't give up hope. If you do that, I'll do the same. I want better for good people who are caught in awful circumstances. If I can help you, then I'm going to do my best to try. I promise you that."

With a casual salute, Fox nodded a vow of a return - and not of goodbye. Walking off with a sigh of satisfaction, feet absentminded in their placement, only to then crunch his snout face-first into a walking bystander. And not just any pedestrian of the lows, but a Wolf Pack security guard no less - who stared back in a daze, knuckles cracking. Celeste grimaced with a hard swallow, observing as the hero attempted to show his UpperSector credentials, only to then race down the path, jumping between bodies to avoid the hulking guard charging his way.

"It really was him, right, big sister? You were talking with Mr. McCloud."

Celeste turned at the squeal of a young child's delight. A heart-shaped face looked up at her, the child's mouth a taut oval stricken with wonderment. The little girl crept upon her toes and wrapped one small arm around Celeste's leg as if ready to climb. "I could tell it was him from the start. His eyes are just as green as these." The other arm clutched at a threadbare Fox McCloud stuffed toy that hung limp. A bolt of stuffing emerged from some loose stitching at its wrist after a lifetime of being dragged around.

The little girl's curls of hair were yanked back inside with a sharp pull from a stern mother. "Annabelle, my dear, back inside with you! Remember what we've told you? You can't be seen out in the open!"

"But he's going to help us, isn't he, Cel?" Annabelle freed herself from Prudence to run back to her older sister, her petite frame slipping out from tired, brittle hands. "Fox said he would. A hero has to stand by their word. Even one from Corneria." Annabelle cradled the toy to her chest, eyes as wide as they could possibly stretch.

"It's a possibility. I'd like to believe it to be true, but-" Celeste kneeled, glancing about with unease. The realism - the pessimism - began to resonate from her words but soon vanished by the innocence of her sister's owlish, bright eyes. "But until then, we just have to depend on ourselves. Be our own heroes." She pulled her sister in and nestled her into a secure embrace, the doll knocking upon her side.

"Like we always have."

---

"This must be the deck. X marks the spot." Fox bent at his knees, catching his breath - endurance a bit out of practice since his track and field days at the academy. He scowled while looking ahead to the Quartermaster's office. "Great, now to just somehow get past another guy."

A shady, gangling rat loitered in the faint shadows of the Scavenger's Deck. Dressed in a distressed corduroy jacket, flecked with sewn patchwork on the mend from a few brawls. Lengthy arms were more bone than muscle, resembling malnourishment or just a wonky metabolism that never leveled to match a giant, adolescent growth spurt. One foot propped his gauche frame against the wall while he juggled a retracted switchblade. He then caught the handle like a ball to a pitcher's glove, casually forking its sharp tip through his canines as a toothpick.

The young man's surly frown was nothing more than a streaked line, fragmented by a missing front tooth. Fox had an inkling of sympathy for a rodent without its signature incisors - one survivor left to mourn for its twin. The list of hard knocks read on. A glaring blue-purple welt swelled upon his cheek, recently nursed with an ice pack. Iron lined the rat's spine as if the scrappy wounds were badges of honor to prove one's worth with the pack: a desire - a need - to not fall lower on the totem of the pecking order.

Yet the rat's expressions alternated between aloofness and concern, scanning the crowd like a lighthouse on the ocean, searching for a sign or miracle. Examining not just the people but rather the consequences. The clammy hands, the sparse trembling lips, the eyes that shifted and overshadowed by a false sense of shrewdness so smooth the ruffian might just slip on his own bullshit.

"Who the fuck are you?" The rat caught Fox's line of fire, jolted with surprise at attention, knife firmly sealed in his grip. "Stand back from me, will ya? You reek of privilege."

Fox shuffled back a step, recollecting that nasally pitch with its pitiful yet comprehensive range of inflections. It was none other than the heckler from the day of his arrival - the very scapegoat for Wolf's aggression to dare mock his rival. The blow of the direct impact still rang in Fox's ears like a point-blank shotgun shell. The regret had turned into hysteria that suffocated his lungs, his hobbled body launched into the crowd with a desperate bolt to find safety in its numbers. Compared to the defiant young man in front of him, it was almost as if they were two different people or simply that Fox had now met the genuine personality underneath the façade.

Striding over with a gruntled grin, Fox puffed his chest. "Aw, don't recognize me in the new getup? Did that backhand from Wolf rattle your brain all the way down Amnesia Lane? By the way, the name's Fox and not what you called me before, as I dare not repeat it."

"Yeah, I know who you are now. The bigshot pretty boy. The washed-up Cornerian puppet." He nursed his wounded jaw, fixing the hero with unspoken accusations as if he were at fault for the rat's lamentable condition. "Did you come to rub it in for my remark? Nothing personal. A guy just has to play the game to fit around here. You know how that is, right?"

"I've got a bone to pick with you, but that will have to wait since I don't like to kick a dog-" Fox balked and fidgeted. "Er, rodent - when it's down. Judging from your busted-up appearance, it looks like you've been down longer than when I put Andross six feet under."

The rat exchanged a quick, disgusted snort before stowing his knife. A curt reaction expelled at the mention of the late mad scientist. "You're the one to talk, loser. Rumors travel fast around Sargasso, and the word around the slums is that you tapped out of your duel like a coward." Conceit raised the rat's chin, his eyes tilting back to mere slits - yet flared with anger. "You must have fallen pretty hard on your ass, wasn't able to match the terms of your duel, and you're now stuck working for Wolf. I'm on the money, right? Why else would Fox McCloud, the spectacular hero of Lylat, be here now in a Wolf Pack uniform?"

Fox broke eye contact for a split second. "Not quite. There's more to it than that."

But not too far from it either. He doesn't need to know that.

"Your name is Cliff, right? And don't tell me - you're not the Quartermaster, right? You don't radiate a sense of… competence."

"Feh. I'm his assistant. And he ain't seeing anyone, so come again later. Or perhaps never."

"You really don't know a thing about respect? No wonder Wolf doesn't like you."

"I don't care what Wolf said before. I ain't going to respect someone as pathetic and mewling as you." Cliff stole a curious glance at Fox's sides and pockets, inspecting for hidden objects. "Well, if you're not here to rub it in, what the hell are you here for anyway?"

Fox spoke with a flat timbre, an agitated urge to keep the conversation terse. "I came to investigate about the platinum reserves that have gone missing. Is your boss inside for me to ask about any leads?"

"Not this again. It's the same story we tell everyone, runt." The rat hawed up a hoarse gurgle, spitting wads of saliva at Fox's boots. "Yes, it's missing, but so is a bunch of other stuff too. This is a pirate stronghold, remember? Wolf employs people who steal, cheat, and murder for a living; things are bound to get swiped. The Quartermaster can't be held responsible because some clumsy dock workers lost track of a crate or two."

An unpleasant garlic odor reeked from the spit. Fox wanted nothing more than to sling a sack of breath mints or douse the rodent in mouthwash. "I can't imagine it's just a few crates. Otherwise, why would Wolf be concerned over it?"

Broken teeth grinding, Cliff's bruised purple cheek scrunched like a squashed prune. "Because it's Wolf-freaking-O'Donnell, dumbass. What isn't he controlling and browbeating over? The man doesn't deal with second chances. Instead, he hands out beatings like it's Halloween candy."

"Point taken." Fox conceded with a grimace. "But it doesn't change the fact that the responsibility of managing goods is with your boss. Things don't just magically vanish without reason. I need to find out why. Since we both know how Wolf operates, then you know it would be foolish to interfere with his business."

A faint sneer capered at the edges of the rat's crooked muzzle. "Or what? What exactly are you going to do about it? Wolf ain't around to protect your silk-stocking, scrawny ass now. You might just have to do it yourself this time."

In this case, what would Wolf do - besides backhanding a man to a stupor who dared to test him. Fox mimicked his rival's form rote by memory and past battles. His thin body squared up with legs loose and outspread, oriented to amass as much space as possible. Channeling a bit of that taciturn aggression his rival wore off the sleeve, that sweat-inducing villainous smirk that judged and dismissed its targets all at once. Dropping a free hand down the Wolf Pack gun holster, Fox pinched the locked snap to unbind the firearm from its casing. His hand nestled on the grip of the blaster, testing how easily the coarse leather could be flung open to draw his weapon at a crucial split second.

"What am I going to do?" Pushing back his jacket, Fox revealed the slip of simmering heat of blaster fire contained at his hip. "Whatever has to be done. If you know anyone else that managed to go toe-to-toe with the Star Wolf team and lived - in both space and land - I'd love to hear it."

Fists shaking, anger wracked Cliff's form, but it was unlike Wolf's. Unfocused and wild, juvenile even, yet far too timid to act upon. Its fire burned without purpose or responsibility as to who struck the first match. It burned to exist, to be fueled, and rage until extinguished only by a greater force. Vengeance for the intimidation. Retaliation for being made an example of on the hero's day of arrival. The fault of his cowardly circumstance lay within Fox - and Fox alone.

The rodent dashed over, bumping into the pilot's chest with a thump: the two locked horns, both standing their ground. Cliff's mouth curved, trembling and overflowing with a plague of curses. A puerile belief that might is achieved through a screaming match of words and not through action - the louder goes the spoils. And who knows? If one keeps telling a lie, no matter how grandiose or delusory, out of a hundred, surely it takes just one to be gullible enough to believe it. But it is not the masses that need the convincing - just the self.

"My hatchling, is there z-someone at the door?" uttered a scratching of a ghastly voice beyond the curtains of the office.

The rat's thin, bloodshot eyes never broke their focus - or their malice - from Fox. "Yeah, just a girly runt who wandered down the wrong alley." He yelled back, then flickered down towards the pilot's collar, eyes then blinking and red like dirt caught at its corners. A hint of fear gurgled in his voice. "But he's got the mark, boss."

"Yes, yes. I can z-smell the silver from here. Let our new friend inside. We may deal in the trade of precious metals and weapons, but we shouldn't z-forget how to conduct ourselves in front of a client."

Cliff huffed and kicked the floor in protest like a petulant toddler caught red handed. Then, he scooched over with a bent forward neck, allowing Fox passage. The foyer was draped in sheer beige gossamer and layered with metal beaded strings, jingling pendulums oscillating in a mellow breeze. The curtains grazed Fox with a sticky substance as he walked past, the fabric dusted in thin, film-like spider silk spun off tree branches in late autumn. Boots ripped a tear into the loose paper shreddings and star maps of Lylat that carpeted the floor.

A dim shape formed in a wavering hemisphere of light behind a desk. Dozens of computer screens protruded from the walls and ceiling, an intricate bed of wires plugged into electrical sockets like viscid, twisting roots. Nestled in an egg-shaped dome of technology was an unknown creature, unlike any recognizable animal species Fox had ever witnessed. The myriad of electronic flashes of yellow-blue lights, projecting lines of computing text off each screen, illuminated the alien's exotic features.

A humble cloak of cotton robes covered his mottled carapace, his six separate limbs multitasking in sync as they scraped many tablet surfaces and keyboards. Each of his visible arms shedded layers of stiff, fiber-like wraps of dark skin. Long, fibrous antennae protruded from his head above a mouthpiece shaped like pincers of a crab, underbite of two eroded, yellow fangs. Chitinous plates clicked and quivered around calcified joints that curved inward.

Fox gawked at the sight before him, swallowing to parch the dryness of his mouth left to hang open. Conked with bewilderment and denial, the pilot rubbed his eyes to dispel what might have been a mirage in front of him. The rodent grumbled with irritability, a reaction from guests he'd lived through hundreds of times over that had long lost its appeal.

Am I really seeing this just now? The Quartermaster is a literal, anthropomorphic ant. No, it's a fly or a praying mantis? A hybrid of all those three? How often does Lylat have an alien race just so blatantly out in the open? Not just that, but working for Wolf of all people?

"Hm. Not just any ordinary client to walk to my door. On the contrary, a new young man z-marked with the Star Wolf insignia. Here for a work-related matter, I presume?" The two antennae - each coated in thousands of fine hairs - stretched outward, juddering. Almost as if they were signaling or gathering particles from the air. From what Fox could interpret, the antennae itself were an olfactory equivalent for the insect.

The voice was grating and dissonant, as if his esophagus strained to push back against layers of collected cobwebs and dust. Static noises vibrated off every spoken word and syllable like a loose electrical cord. Even the raddled breathing halted with the intermittent, trumpet-like cough did not impede his arms of their tiresome work.

"No. Not just for business, but for more. The z-stench of the Lows has not z-tainted you. Your scent is fresh but infused with bold, piquant tones. Too wholesome. Too honest." His mandibles chittered like a ringing bell. "An actual visitor to z-speak with the Quartermaster? How quaint."

The insect's eyes were lustrous like dark granite, molded into polyhedrons of many sides, inserted like a gemstone in a socket. Fox marveled at the glint of leaden lights contained - no, suppressed - within the partition of every edge and division of its bulbous form. Each smooth surface reflected its own separate image of the pilot's puzzled expression; it was as if at least twelve faces had been looking back at him. The numerous reflections merged into one complete being within the pivots, diffusing a serenity that steadied the pulse of his heartbeat and the tightening of his chest. The calm shuddered a final flutter of emptiness that cleared the mind as if stumbling to a forbidden realm or witnessing a flash of the void itself.

But the alien before Fox exuded a potent aura just as the gentle push of gravity molds. Of an ancient knowledge not meant for the common man. An insight to outwit the greatest of opponents or burst their bubble of naivete to let truth and horror unmake their reality. It existed neither as warning or blessing but an undeniable fact rooted in law, just as a force of nature rampages indiscriminately or a planet endlessly pulled upon its axis - yet, there was restraint.

As if there was a price to wisdom - a torment of knowing truths far greater than the ordinary mind could ever comprehend or withstand. That another will never strive - or be capable even if willing - to view the universe through a lens unhindered by the imperfections of the mortal mind that reach beyond the dichotomy of black-and-white morality. Like a monk cloistered in a monastery, out of touch from the world and its paltry machinations, its people equally deprived of the hermit's wisdom and experience. All the years of knowledge, research, and enlightenment will be entombed and lost to the rot within the inevitable grave.

"I don't know about me being savory or sweet and all that. Maybe a bit spicy sometimes, but never just sweet." Fox let slip a nervous giggle, then coughed into a fist to recollect a firm tone. "I can see you're a busy man, what with keeping track of Wolf's ill-gotten goods. Hope you get ample overtime knowing how many imports Wolf acquires off the innocent."

"Indeed, which is why my office is in such a cluttered state. Titania is in z-retrograde, and I find myself lost in a complex to review all of my logs and paperwork. Time-consuming, yes, but an excellent chance for self-reflection and introspection while the galaxy's energies begin to slow to a crawl during this phase. I'd advise on not making any z-reckless decisions in the near future." The insect's neck cocked to the side with a few brief clicks, like the dialing of a wind-up toy. "Forgive my rambling. How have the Lows been z-treating you on this listless day?"

Be respectful. Don't make a bug joke, McCloud. I'm trying, I'm trying!

"Oh, you know, just buzzing around to find my way around this dump. I feel like I need several hot showers to sterilize whatever germs I've got crawling on me now. All this filth pilling up is bound to attract a bunch of pests or bugs-" Fox winced, too focused on the marvel before him. His mind far wandered off on its journey of bewilderment, now lax in its control of his loose tongue.

Shit. Learn to filter yourself, damn it. Yeah, my bad.

The comment flew sky-high past the insect; his appendages were engaged and lively at their tasks. Cliff would not take such a slip without reprisal, growling loud enough to satisfy both him and his superior.

"I take it Cliff was at least z-courteous with you?" The Quartermaster spoke as if to acknowledge the defensive gesture.

"Oh, he's a keeper, alright." Fox rolled his eyes.

Yeah, as in keep him in a cage. Hah! Is it cheesy to laugh at my own jokes?

"But I'll cut to the chase and be direct. On behalf of Star Wolf, I've been sent here to find out about the missing shipments. I have reason to believe they might have been compromised by someone within Sargasso's ranks. In other words, an inside job may be responsible for it, and I need any information that you can provide."

Cliff cut a tottery glance to the insect, eyes roving for a reaction, before snapping back. Fox felt the rat's narrow gaze dissecting his form - posture shrinking, yet seething in dissent. He mumbled a few choice words under his breath. Fox could only decipher the utterance of 'twat', 'ass-jabber', and something having to do with his mother's backside. Nothing respectable, he was sure of.

"Ah, yes. That. Again with the z-platinum situation?" A puff of air released from the insect's mouthpiece. The noise could closely be interpreted as an indistinct but riled groan. "How could I have z-forgotten when that meddlesome, black feline barges through my door every other day about it. Your cohort's scent is sour and spoiled. Masking his misery and inner confliction with the fragrance of watery petals, moss, and vine. Nature was never meant to be z-blended with such disharmony of emotions. Offensive, it is."

Fox sighed out a bit of sass. "Panther's not my cohort, but he sure is offensive."

The rat stepped forward, jabbing the pilot out of his way with his shoulder. "Boss, do you want me to tell this fop head go fuck off back to the UppitySector where he belongs? He's irritating as all hell with that whiny voice of his."

"No. I'll z-entertain him a bit." Two out of the Quartermaster's six limbs pointed directly to his assistant. "Hatchling, will you work on the next task at our private storeroom on the Scavenger's Deck? The cobalt reserves need to be z-inspected for their integrity before they head to the engineering department. If anything, the Lord wouldn't be nearly as angry about missing ore as he would if his men had procured yet another shipment of forged goods from our disreputable trading partners."

"Boss, I should stay here with you. Someone has to watch outside and-" The two locked eyes, the rat transfixed with the images of his scowled reflection within the insect's gaze as Fox had been before him. There was a pause, a silent exchange without words or gestures—a conversation of unspoken understanding like telepathy between boss and assistant. The rat nodded with a curt angle, then retreated to the exit of the room, reluctance heavy and dragging in his steps.

"Ah. The room is much clearer without the z-surplus of anger and rage confounding the air. He is far too quick z-tempered. Easier to talk this way." At last, the Quartermaster concluded his work, placing every ledger and device at rest on his desk. "I do indeed have a lead of information that you seek, but first, let us speak in z-pleasantries before we get to business. Work-related matters have become too monotonous to discuss in my old age. The shipments and the backlog of inventory can wait. Not important when there is a shell-man standing in my z-presence."

Fox flinched in offense. "A shell-man? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I hate to break it to you, but you might need to smell your way to an optometrist. I'm not a tortoise with a giant shell on my back."

"Hah. Do not be so hasty to view the world in such a literal sense. Stray far away from the rest of the afflicted inhabitants of Sargasso and their myopic attitudes. They are as mindful and aware as a rock, chasing only after their next material gain or binge of liquor. At last, you seem like the type that can actually see past their own mandibles."

Twitching, the Quartermaster's head angled about with sharp, sporadic movements as if studying the air past the vulpine's shoulder. "Yes, you are a shell-man—a visitor of the planes—a hatchling in a z-transitory state. Many souls wander through Sargasso, but very few show a spark of life, ceaselessly neglecting to tend a simmering, damp flame within. You are not a man, yet not a child, but something more. What that is, I have yet to z-determine."

"Not a man or child? They have a word for that: adolescence. I often get mistaken for a teenager, but I swear I'm in my early twenties." Placing a hand on his hip, Fox shifted his weight to the side. "I don't understand what you mean by any of that."

"It was not z-age I was referring to, but the z-spirit. I have lived centuries across the Lylat galaxy, traveling beyond its outer reaches to the neighboring galaxies that I once called home. This old exoskeleton of mine has mastered many tricks and lessons from my explorations. And when a powerful soul born of z-primordial energy just leisurely struts in my office, to willingly return back to a vessel of bound flesh - a shell - once more, it demands my z-utmost attention."

Each separate pair of arms joined together, palms flat - contemplative. A livewire ran through Fox's body as the alien hummed while tipping forward, eyes shut. "It is an honor and a z-privilege to meet you."

"Not to be rude or anything, but that all sounds like some old soothsayer platitude. Or a useless message in a fortune cookie. I don't see how that applies to me." Fox poked a cheek with his tongue. "Do you already know who I am? I haven't even introduced myself yet."

Everyone here in Sargasso seems to know more about me than I do. Am I that easy to read?

The Quartermaster shook his head. "I do not, my visitor. Names are not z-important to my kind. I shall not request yours, for I have none to give in return. If you wish to address me, you can refer me to my occupation. My z-title should suffice." And, as if with a playful snide: "Better to be known by my title than just be called a bug."

Fox smoothed the edge of his ignorance with a sheepish shrug and smile. "Excuse my dumb comment earlier about the whole, uh, bug thing. I'm afraid I've never seen or heard of your kind before. Just what are you, exactly? I'd be interested in learning more about your people and where you originated from."

The insect's mandibles contorted into a smile-adjacent shape traced with pleasure. "The title of my people is indecipherable by your Lylatian tongue. From a distant, neighboring galaxy beyond Lylat lies my homeworld, the origins of my brood. We evolved as z-hunters that burrow deep underground, tunneling massive civilizations near the core of our planet, our bodies capable of withstanding even the deadliest of heat. Yet, my kind is not blessed with z-adequate sight, so we communicate, visualize and express ourselves through other ways - namely through detecting scents and the potency of its traces."

"A language of scents? I'll admit that is pretty intriguing." Dropping his shoulders, Fox leaned in with avid awe. "But how does that work? You can have actual conversations just by emitting an odor?"

"Emotions are a product of chemical reactions from our brains and the pituitary system. When we feel and emote, our body secretes pheromones through our carapace, or rather for you, your skin. The emotions often secrete a smell, a taste, and delicacy that the races of Lylat will never have the z-appetite for. So my brood has adapted and evolved through the millennia by orchestrating a language through these very scents. Our form of communication is more subtle but bellows in far greater magnitudes than speech ever could. The stronger the emotion, the more powerful its scent, and the longer it leaves an impression onto the air. A z-fleeting conversation, like a washed-up seaside message in a bottle, discovered years after it is spoken."

Fox detected a faint saltiness in the air, like a fleck of a single grain of salt or the spray of ocean water crashing upon sandy shores. It passed in the wind as a voice whispered low from an adjacent room or an image unblurring as it walked to the forefront. But it was more than just a scent. It was stimulation of all the senses itself igniting to an overdrive, prickling the mind awake - alert to a heightened state to more than what could be perceived once before.

The tip of the pilot's nose quivered with itchiness, half-expecting the scent to return once more. He looked up. "Quartermaster? I'm curious about the flavor profiles of the emotions. What does happy smell like?"

"Astringent. Bitter."

"Really?"

"Were you expecting z-sweet? Fear and z-terror are more so - rather delectable to my delight. Regret is the sweetest and most desirable of all." His antennae trilled with rapid speed. "And there are plenty of sweets to be had in the LowSector. Your mere z-presence makes my mandibles water."

"I was definitely not expecting that, no." Fox wet his lips, circumventing that last comment of its implications. "But, if you could read and see how people are feeling internally and not just by what was said - surely that has some advantages."

"That it does. Deception and its honeyed stench are easily detectable by my kind. A lie is perforated by innumerable distorted emotions. The densely sweet guilt dripping off, the fusion of the sweet-sour fear of reprimand, and sometimes, the salty thrill for acting upon a falsehood." The insect then paused, head askew as if to savor a memory. "Because of our enhanced sense, everything is shared openly and honestly within the brood, for nothing could be hidden. The community is designed as a collective, and the interest of the brood's cohesiveness takes precedent before the individual."

"You're a literal living and breathing polygraph machine. There's a talent that's as equally awesome as it's potentially frightening." Fox's cheeks flushed with a glaze of concern to moderate his speech in the Quartermaster's presence. "Now I can understand why Wolf employed you, but why as someone specializing in inventory management? Wouldn't your talents be better utilized elsewhere?"

"Wolf keeps me around for the bigger picture. Many other lesser-known criminal organizations reside outside of Sargasso territory with whom we trade. The very same partners are envious of the power, control, and region that Sargasso has in their grasp. Pirates like to deal in lucrative contracts where they not only z-obtain their sought supplies but retain their currency. If I should be in the vicinity of their negotiations or smell their intent off signed trade contracts, I can advise on whether or not their words ring true. If they don't, then their intentions can be read like a book, for their scents will scream their truth when silence traps their tongue."

We could use someone of his talents with Star Fox. Just imagine - we'd never land a shit mercenary contract ever again! I wonder just how much Wolf is paying this guy. Whatever it is, that biweekly check must have a lot of decimals on it. I don't think even that's within our budget unless I start transferring funds from the family trust.

Or we could just cut Falco's salary. He's just going to spend it on weed anyway.

Just for a brief moment, Fox tasted a sour, lemon-like tone in the air, albeit more robust and lasting than the salt before.

"But enough of the small talk, let's return to the matter at hand: the reason for your arrival today." The dome of computer screen lights faded with inactivity as the room waxed still with darkness. "Now knowing what you have learned from me, and z-understanding what I am capable of seeing: tell me this, my visitor." A row of yellow fangs glinted behind his mandibles as his black eyes gleamed. "Hypothetically, if there were a responsible party behind the platinum's disappearance, and you were to uncover their whereabouts, what would you do then to rectify the situation?"

Fox fumbled and gazed into the distance, having been put on the spot just like the interrogating drill sergeants spitting orders during boot camp at the academy. A severe question delivered and in need of a breakneck answer. "From what I know, the individual is a Venomian spy, one of the greatest threats that my home of Corneria has ever known. I have no love for either Sargasso or Venom, but I don't harbor any hatred for either. Yet, my indifference does not mean I am unaware of the dangers both affiliations bring to Corneria." The pilot ran a hand through his hair, focus returning. "I would handle the spy in a way that I think is just. To end things as rationally and peacefully as possible. Quite simply, my goal is to persuade them to escape before more violent means are necessary."

"Is that your answer, my visitor?" The Quartermaster's mandibles suspended in the air - motionless. "Is that your truth?"

The rasping voice leveled into rich clarity, no longer strained, throat unclogged. A tingling of disbelief scraped Fox's chest. The source of the voice resounded the expanse of the room as if from an overhead speaker. A weight to his words that pressured like a threat to reveal a dark secret or a life-changing revelation.

Fox looked again upon his glinting reflections, mesmerizing back into the trance of the gemstone eyes. The feeling of the void stirred once more, extracting an intent - a purpose - to measure or evaluate, lest be consumed. But further in the darkness now refracted a prismatic beam, jetting the expanse with separate strands of vivid color. Each stream, a conscious thought resonated within - fear of the unknown, a curiosity of new experiences, and the courage to improve. His answer then slowly assembled around him.

"I don't know if that is my truth like you suggest, but it is what I believe to be the right thing to do. However, my course of action may change the more that I learn about the situation at hand - more about the conflict between Sargasso and Venom. So to answer your question, the only truth I really have is-" Fox stroked the lump in his throat, "that I don't have one at all-" with featherlight touches that glided to rest above his sternum, "but I hope one day I'll know it," to palm the rush of relief rising into wistfulness - "I just have no idea how to reach it. I'm scared I'll never be able to."

The alien shifted in place and the computer den's lights shined back into activity from movement, glowing upon the Quartermaster with a heavenly ray. A sense of accord had been reached after a tense deliberation with a glint of understanding within coal-washed eyes. "Your scent is steeped with your honesty and kindness. It is time to end the z-charade. I think we both know who the spy that you seek is." The insect's shaking hands seize the table, anchoring him in place from a potential fall. "It is none other than my z-assistant who awaits in the storeroom. Everyone else who has inquired about the shipments, I misled from the trail. I entrust his fate to you, for I know that you alone would be capable of showing the hatchling mercy."

"Cliff, that unfortunate bastard, a Venomian spy? Figures, judging from his shit personality. They could have sent someone a bit more inconspicuous and seasoned." Lips closed flat, Fox jerked as a single wave of adrenaline washed over him. His target revealed - once in plain sight and now several yards away. "Quartermaster. You feigned ignorance this whole time, full well knowing he was affiliated with Venom all along. How long had it been since you learned of his infiltration?"

The Quartermaster's tone plummeted to a somber state, as if from exhaustion. "Immediately when he was assigned under my tutelage half a year ago. A sleuthing spy cannot mask his trail of neurosis that plagued his scent like polluted water left to stagnate. The anxious uproar of maintaining the guise of the enemy left him careless over fabricating his redirection of shipments. Even the most amateur of cyberwarfare specialists could have identified the spillage of his encrypted messages back to Venom."

Remember the cheating scandal incident during our second class year? How Pepper addressed the expulsions after the academic board uncovered the answers list for the final exams? 'An honest person tends to behave in dishonest ways, for they have no reason to prove their fidelity. And a liar will do everything and say anything to appear truthful.' And a lie is destined to replicate again and again just to divert from the first one.

"My wish was to z-passively influence the hatchling to change his affiliation away from Venom. To suggest alternatives that would lead to growth rather than destruction. Despite your unpleasant encounters, that hatchling also has the same capacity for empathy that you possess. He listens without protest to all my musings and discourse, regardless of his headache-inducing struggles to understand or retain interest. His persistent reminders for this old man to adjourn from work after z-burrowing wearisome, late evening hours inside my computer den. And when my legs ache and creak with age, he escorts me to my nest when I struggle to do it myself."

A sullenness consumed the inkling of a smile in Fox's expression. Flash guilt pinged his core and then plunged into jealously - scalding and indulgent. That should have been him in the rat's steed. To seize the love of a parent once again. To bask in a mother's affectionate doting, to relish every moment of a father's practical wisdom, and reminisce over the years when a parent can finally speak as a friend. What he wouldn't give or trade to breathe that love again and not settle for a past happy memory, dried and weaned to the very last drop.

"So you chose to protect Cliff to give him a chance to break ties. Not many would have taken the chance to persuade the enemy." Gripping at an elbow, Fox felt a breath hitch tight. "To harbor a spy so boldly was a great risk on your part. Are you not concerned how Wolf may retaliate from this?"

"A great risk? None. No risk to be had." A chirring buzzed in his throat mimicking laughter, round abdomen wriggling from the audacity, not the humor. "Too z-useful am I to Wolf. Would never depart with me for my knowledge and talents cannot be replaced. Not yet, at least."

But the laughter was a brief performance, chirring swindled to a chirp. "Only risks were that The Rose Bearer would have executed the hatchling. Or worse, The Torturer would have kept him locked away in his quarters, to be made a slave or to bring him to death's door over and over again - a fate I wish on no one. I've been fortunate to never have met that demon in person, but I have been witness to his cruelty and the horrid tales of the stench that chronicle his sins of murder. Listen to me when I say this-" Fox's skin tingled, startled by the shrill fragility in the insect's voice. A shudder in fear wracked his six limbs. "There is no greater danger inside Sargasso's walls than the chameleon - more so than even the Pirate Lord himself. It would be z-wise to remember that."

Slipping a rigid hand above the letter in his pocket, the pilot's fingers clutched at its crinkled folds. His recent acquaintance, with whom he'd met over baked sweets and tea, had known of Cliff's identity all along, electing to usher the hero a trail of breadcrumbs to peck at instead of claiming the bounty himself. But for what purpose would the assassin provide such a pivotal clue? Such onerous restraint for Leon to relinquish prey to a fledgling member of the pack - a test of mettle. Fox wasn't sure whether to feel honored or terrified.

With a bent thorax, the Quartermaster's body went still. "My visitor, I plead to your sense of compassion. Allow the hatchling to escape and see more from what the galaxy can offer, besides his war-torn planet of Venom or the crimes of Sargasso. Let him experience life and all of its blessings. He-"

A resounding salvo of laser fire erupted outside the office. Glass shattering apart against a volley of return fire. There was a yell - a howl - a crashing of objects in a din of a scuffle.

"That sound. Gunfire! It's z-coming from the storeroom! My assistant - my boy - I-"

Fox's gut wrenched and liquified. He huddled in place, his body nearly dropping to the ground, hands unleashing his blaster from its casing. The flashes of war ablaze in his mind, body, and soul. Once again, the warrior spirit channeled through him, beckoning the call of his trusted steed, the Arwing itself. But there was no answer of his prized ship - no controls to fasten and charge ahead - only the sizzle of the Wolf Pack's gun in his shaking grasp.

"My visitor, surely our conversation must have been eavesdropped on! Are you bugged or z-wired?"

Fox frantically patted down his chest, sides, and the loose fit around his thighs. "Me? I don't believe so! At least, I don't think I am! Are you sure your office isn't tapped?"

"It cannot be so. I have spoken with Wolf many times. He is wrapped upon hardened lies like armor, but there is only honesty when it comes to my z-privacy." The Quartermaster's antennae swirled like a windmill, thrashing for a scent of a clue. They then froze in place, spearing toward Fox, dowsing rods riding out their final detecting quiver. "No. It is you. On your clothes, close to your z-mouth as you speak - the insignia!"

Shoulders huddled, Fox elbows tucked into his sides. "Damn it, Wolf. You just couldn't trust me to do the job, could you? Had to follow me and intrude at the very end."

"The Lord must have been z-listening in and sent his men to finish off the hatchling! Please. Save him, I beg of you! He is just down the hall!"

"I'm on it!" Fox sprinted out like the floored, jumpstarted ignition of a hovercraft, arms flung behind in the wind. His boots squeaked against every sharp skidding turn. Frantic twisting of the neck, ears perked high and equipped, tracking the hail of laser bolts to its origin. At the end of the hall lay a busted door, unhinged from its bolted frame from a charge of a mighty shoulder. Fox dashed closer as a row of an altercation of razor-coated voices bled through outside.

"You better drop them hands to hell, boy, or else that's where you're headed next!"

"I can't! I won't! Do you know what they would do to me now I've been found? What he would do to me?!"

"My heart bleeds for ya, really it does. But I warned you, boy, not ever to disrespect me again. You've got only one oar in the water left, so make the smart move and abandon ship before you sink."

"Y-you would… you would let me go? If I surrendered?"

"You can certainly surrender, alright, but unluckily for you, I'm kind of a vindictive bastard. I ain't never learned how to just let things go without getting the last word in."

"No! S-stay back! Back, I said! I'll shoot you! I'll-"

Fox dashed in the storage room to discover no slew of men. Just the hazy silhouette of a sinister figure elongated along the floor. Exposed to the darkness and the ghostly, incandescent lights - suave and unphased by battle - was Wolf O'Donnell. With a single huff of agitation and inconvenience, the pirate crouched behind a steeple of metal crates for cover with his gun in hand, biceps flexed and primed to pull the trigger. Chest rising with restlessness and brimming with vengeance, the reaper emerged to separate the chaff from the wheat.

When a job needed to be done right, the Pirate Lord trusted none other than himself. Reliance on close allies existed only to siphon attention away from their inevitable betrayal. To share confidence was to place a target upon his back - to weaken and be made vulnerable - an abstraction of strength. There was no glory or pride in disposing of mere rubbish, for the rat was just a foolish mistake in need of correction. To erase the shameful error of showcasing the fallacy of mercy to the weak. A traitor does not steal or betray one of their own to live and remain among them.

"Wolf! Hold your fire!" Fox intervened forward in caution, one open hand to reach out in clemency, gun ready in the other. He worked his jaw, stuttering to force out steady, hushed words. "We don't need to take it this far. Just let the guy go, Wolf. You said you would let me handle this."

"What are you doing, just wanderin' into a shootout?!" Wolf harrumphed, swerving his chin over his shoulder to glower at the hero. "Damn it, McCloud, Stay back! You've done your part, but I'm taking over from here. This one ain't gettin' away from his punishment that easy!"

A haunted visage jumped out from behind a cover of shelves. Matted, wet blood and tears tarnished and trickled from Cliff's anguished form. Helplessness dilated his eyes, unable to blink out his terror. Despair now melted the guise of hollow manhood reduced to a child's sniveling desperation, unspoken screams of pleas to be rescued from loved ones who were deaf to his cries. A man who had glimpsed into the next world, his body to be ousted out the airlock to the endless grave - a pirate's burial fitting for the forsaken of the outcasts of civilization.

Cliff's eyebrows cemented together, the torment pinching his forehead, creases deep and evident. A keen light flickered off the photon blaster that locked at the hilt of both his hands. Dazed in hysteria, a jerk reaction for last-ditch survival, Cliff raised his gun. His vision a swirl of both pirate and hero fused together - a blur within the scope's shaking crossfire.

"Shit!" Wolf barked. He huddled over his cover. "Look alive, Fox!"

Fox's blood frosted over in dread as he peered down the barrel - the esophagus of Cliff's gun - aimed to skewer through his skull. His periphery a shade in sepia tones. A scar ruptured in time as seconds merged into minutes into hours. The vulpine's body trembled, legs and arms stiffened in abrupt paralysis, feet implanted to the ground. A pressed finger slipped off the sweat collected at the trigger.

And then Wolf bolted towards the pilot diving mid-air, a driving force charged of adrenaline shot out like a cannonball. Once so perfect in his recklessness and abandon, the pirate's rugged face was now stamped with pale frenzy: lashing out, gasping, and staggering all at once. His incoming, intervening arms just several hand-spans away from Fox's heart.

A lone pulse of laser crackled then soared, screaming upward from the blaster's throat: ear-piercing, lightning-like. A ghastly noise ruptured through Fox's throat, bridging a roar and a screech. Then a blare of the thrashing of bodies. Fox was knocked off his feet, a crack impacting his crumpled body to a metal floor, his world spinning - ending. And as the darkness took him, one last memory of the smell of burning carbon sizzling - the white vapor steaming off his body.

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Next Chapter: Perceptual Salience