Act One

Chapter 7: Perceptual Salience Part I

Three Months ALW - Entry 6 - 2:47 AM

Dear Dearest Mother,

Let's dive into the scenery that we call everyday life—a landscape into the doldrums. A fragile ecosystem filled with psychological terror. Sleepless were my nights, hours chronicled by daydreams and laze, all days eventually fading into photographs. Lately, the after-battle malaise hits like a fat puff from a blunt - idling along the peculiarity of being 'lost in thought'. I'm the anti-trailblazer now: Always halfway home and halfway to hell. Methinks they might be the same place.

Psych! Come on. I can't take myself seriously with that nonsense. I'm many things, but a pretentious poet isn't one of them. I am, however, a fledgling artist, so please ignore my scribbles on the pages (god I am so out of practice). Drawing helps me focus. Keeps me grounded in the moment.

If I'm going to maintain a journal, I might as well have some fun and play up the theatrics of an edgy, brooding teen. That attention-seeking behavior that sucks the life out of a room, plus a bit of self-indulgence borderlining on narcissism that blindly assumes anyone even gives a fuck about their opinion. Mix all that and throw it up on paper, and you've got a recipe for miraculous, melodramatic, legible glory. Narrate that mess on a podcast, why don't you?

Oh god. An epiphany just struck and has left me a bit concerned.

My teenage years are almost over (aren't you glad you missed out on the puberty and hormonal fights?), and I somehow skipped over my goth phase. Does that mean I'm doomed to an eventual midlife crisis of angsty, delayed rebellion? Just all somber and macabre and bats and crucifixes galore. Imagine me of all people in antiquated dark garb, full-body spray to dye my fur black, and leaving the Great Fox in stripped fishnets, tights, and eyeliner?

Did you hear that? That was the sound of me shuddering from my fate - terrifying theory, but also amusing. I'm having trouble writing now - all the pages are blotched and damp from flying spits of laughter (and my tears)!

In all seriousness, it was another long, grueling day with Pepper and his board of military bigwigs. I was downing my fifth cup of bland coffee and still struggling to lift the boredom from my eyelids. You can only take so many slideshows and PowerPoints before you're begging for a lobotomy. I also wished they wouldn't confiscate my phone during intel meetings. Security reasons, I get it, but I get ants in my pants if I'm strapped down in one place for too long. I wonder if I got that from Dad.

The Cornerian Army is leading a joint reconstruction effort with the Corneria Defense Force, so of course, they need Star Fox to help spearhead the recovery. Today's agenda was planning diplomatic tours to our neighboring planetary outposts, reinforcing the city's defenses, and yet another intel debriefing (for the hundredth time). All necessary, but everyone's obsessing over Star Fox's precise coordinates throughout the war and operations that led to our victory against Andross. I can only repeat myself so many times before I get resentful and petty. Feels like I'm turning into Falco.

Nothing is left to question. The court officers want to know every detail until it's drilled out of our heads, from the metrics of every single felled enemy craft to confirming the surveillance research of Venom's robotics and weapons technology. They even want to know the specs of our laser upgrades and every smart bomb we deployed? Like, why? Everything seems excessive like there's some ulterior motive at play. I don't have the faintest clue as to what.

The last battle with Venom ended a few months ago. I just wish everyone would stop talking about it like it was yesterday. I'd really like to not relive it every single second. I wasn't kidding about the lack of sleep earlier.

Peppy offered to fill in for me at tomorrow's meeting and said I still had a different kind of debriefing to finish with the psychiatric division. The after-action debrief - needing to ventilate stress and analyze my battle fatigue before being deemed fit for active duty again. He and Slippy got cleared quickly, but the doctors kept calling Falco and myself back. They want us to keep writing these journals, saying it would be 'healthy' and 'healing' to say what's on our minds. I don't know why, but I feel okay? Just a bit drained and lethargic. Unless they see something I don't, I guess. I'd rather pretend to write to you than talk about myself.

But the military doctors have been pushing pills. It makes me uneasy to think about. I don't want my brain to get more fucked up than it already is. Not that there's anything wrong with me to begin with, I mean!

We - including The Great Fox - have been grounded at the naval installation in the CDF-occupied islands near the city ports until we're cleared for release. It's isolating and secluded here on the island, yet peaceful. But I miss home. My gut is telling me it's not going to be too much longer. Pray for us that the war investigations will end soon.

I walked on the beach around midnight last night with Slippy, reminding me of the times we camped out in the manor's backyard, trading ghost stories. Remember that one night when he got so spooked, you had to throw his pajamas in the wash? From the accident? When I brought it up again, he was so flustered he tripped on a piece of driftwood! We haven't laughed that hard together since we were kids.

Anyway - you would have liked the hidden coves built into the cliffs, plenty of seashells and sand dollars galore for your collections. It made me hungry for the bento boxes you would pack for our summer trips to the marina. My all-time favorite bento was the 'Squid Surprise' - the one where you cut the hot dogs at the ends to shape it like tentacles. Me being a morbid child (I blame your side of the family for my sense of humor), I loved to pretend the squids would beg for their lives, screaming in agony as I chomped apart their processed, meaty flesh. Just a massacre of ketchup blood, rice and salted seaweed bits in my whiskers and paws. Fun stuff.

Re-creating your recipes through taste and memory alone has been difficult. I wish you could have taught me your secrets. It never tastes as good as you used to make it.

Oh yeah. I finally saw Bill, aka 'B-Dawg' (it's even more cringe writing it down than saying it) for the first time in months since the war. I had to turn down his invitation to the new downtown gastropub since I'm on lockdown. He was nice enough to bring the beers and burgers to me. Good to see our taxpayer-funded Husky Squadron Fighter Jets double as food delivery cruisers. Bill is still the perfect wind-up, marching toy soldier, so carefree and jovial. All that hoorah, that ten-four, and the beercan-meets-forehead-smashing. We left the academy, but the academy never left Bill.

The pleasantries eventually took a nosedive, though. Felt less like catching up and more an interrogation. Bill said I was off and distant, like my body was here, but I left my mind back in Venom. The same bullshit the doctors have been spouting in my fitness evaluations reports. He better not have somehow gotten access to my files - patient confidentiality, my ass. Then he asked if I enjoyed my 'newfound love of solitude' and 'sudden fame syndrome' - why did that statement piss me off as much as it did?

He doesn't seem to understand it's not a matter of me enjoying anything. Maybe it was because he didn't have the decency to make eye contact or how he rumpled my head like we were still roommates. Just continuously firing off detached, arbitrary inspirational quotes you'd find under some hot dude's shirtless post on social media. Like their freakish beauty is somehow comparable to the aspirations of an actual piece of wisdom. I found it condescending. He was acting like he had more to teach than he had to learn.

"Your best days are ahead of you."

"Don't let that hurt child make your grown-up decisions."

"Time heals all wounds."

Those sentiments are sweet, right? Yeah, but so is cyanide. This plane won't be crash-landing while I still have my hands on the controls.

I think he got that I was upset, considering how quickly he changed the subject faster than he barreled through his fraternity rush during freshman year. He apologized at the end. It's cool. We both know this would never break up our friendship, but I appreciate it all the same.

And before you ask, I apologized too. Didn't feel like it, though. Forgiveness seems to serve me two purposes: to admit when I'm wrong and give up on the hope that the past could have been any different.

Okay. Things are getting heavy. Sorry for wasting your time ranting a bit. If there was anything I assuredly got from Dad, it was his ability to talk (or, in this case, write) your ear (eyes?) off. I could go on and on until my fur turned blue. Talk to you another time.

Stars and Wishes/Forever Your Son,

Junior ~

"What the hell?"

Thump. The knapsack toppled off Fox's slant shoulder, dropping to the floor. Bedroom door ajar, handle loose and unlocked, yet no signs of forced entry. Intuition roused, he surveyed the compact room, sensing a disturbance jeopardizing the sanctity of his dormitory.

Harmony and refuge were four composite steel walls; the inner ribs of the hull of the Great Fox, off-white with metallic sheen frames, caressed by artificial lighting. The afflictions of the day scrubbed clean by the sterile predictability of austere, unadorned spaces, free of clutter and hallmarks of home. The only zest of color was the downy red woolen scarf left hanging upon a thin wall mantle. Fox would let that one slide.

The former military cadet's strict regimen of due spruceness and conduct preserved every corner in impeccable condition. His own personal Skinner box was classically conditioned to toil away on sore hands and knees until he achieved the harmony he craved, one environment entirely controlled by his whim alone. A spotless room meant a spotless mind - or so the regulations claimed. Not even the snap and drag of a drill sergeant's scrutinizing latex glove could pin down a spec of dust.

The full bed still made and tucked at the corners, extra blaster energy cartridges within reach at the cabinets. Check. Bookshelves organized precisely in alphabetical order by author, genre, and the descending dimensions of the length and width of the book's spine. Check. White-and-green uniforms and casual attire folded, steamed and unblemished without a lone crease of a wrinkle. Indubitably checked. Though his pilot boots were due for another polish of wax - it shined too few sparkles for his liking. The texture should be smooth to the touch like a lamb's ear, steel-tipped toes reflecting back the astonished faces beholding an illustrious hero in their presence.

Fox's breathing slowed and deepened out into an exhale. Yes, that's right - he was a hero now. And a famous actor needed to dress up for his role, never again to walk on stage appearing like the common rabble.

Everything in the dormitory appeared to be in order except for a few crucial pieces. Fox's eyes trailed to the swivel chair pushed aside, nose wrinkling to the dithering stench of cheap cigarettes like a run-down motel. And a supple leather-bound book flapped open on his corner desk, a page bent at the corner.

Fox squinted, arms tight to his body. "… Who has been reading my journal?"

Multiplayer/Versus Mode/Select Your Characters

The recreation hall was lit in streaks of lurid colors and bombastic bands of cartoon explosions off the mounted giant, flat screen. Sunken in bean bag chairs slick with spilled soda droplets, both Star Fox leader and trusty engineer engaged in a heated duel of controller warfare. Nearly a decade had passed since boarding school, but the best friends still relived memories of kicking their feet up in their bunk beds, entangled by wires charging their handheld gaming devices. Hooting with the owls in ecstatic exclamations of recent rare Dokémon catches, eager to be thrown into their next online battle. The book reports often due the following morning flashed blank pages on their laptop screens - left unwritten.

A smorgasbord laid upon the coffee table: Ripped bags of chips. Baked potato bites. Uncapped sodas leaking flat bubbles of carbonation. Singed ends of chewy, over-processed mozzarella sticks scorched at the mess hall. The exhaustive, calorie intensive feast prepared by Chef Dave (as they'd affectionately dubbed their crumbling microwave) whose crackling circuits were drained from overtime work, eagerly awaiting retirement. The meal was a well-deserved sojourn from the institutionalized frozen MREs devoid of any flavorful zest or single salt granule, an opportunistic chance to splurge while unchaperoned from the rabbit taskmaster. The old hare was still pinned down in another boardroom, debating city recovery tactics over half-eaten, spicy, Zoness-styled takeout shared among haggard military officers long into the night.

"How do I use Captain Eagle's super move? The one that punches a flaming bird from his fist?" Fox's focus trailed off the television's monitor to look beside him, marveling at the toad's fingers flipping joysticks with abnormal, mechanical speed. Slippy's APM potential could be through the roof if his impressive dexterity and hand-eye coordination were adequately measured.

"Oh, that's an easy one," Slippy croaked and burped up the fizz of his drink. "Simultaneously press B and tilt the analog stick either left or right towards the direction of your opponent. It has a charge activation, so you need to time it correctly to hit."

"Slip, I tried that, and it didn't work. I keep kicking instead." The tip of the vulpine's tongue jutted from his grit teeth as his thumbs shifted from delicate tapping to smashing buttons. "And stop moving so much. How can I even test out the move if your Moon Bat character bounces off the walls and wave dashes around the stage? His skill set is so cheap. He gets a gun, a reflector, and a fire attack? Talk about overpowered."

A flash of an explosion glared across the toad's features, which were affixed with concentration. "What you really meant to say was 'stop moving so I can hit you?' Unlikely. Unless you really are being sincere, then let me show you the proper button combinations - have to do it like this."

"Like what?"

Slippy's bulging eyes gleamed with devilry as he lifted the controller midair. "Like this!"

The game's monitor wobbled with a disorienting earthquake effect, then freeze-framed to Slippy's character winding up a charged baseball bat, tip glaring with a keen spark. Mouth agape, Fox yelped as a smashing home-run swing struck Captain Eagle, his limp body launching off the stage into a burst of comical inflated yellow stars. GAME! Match called by the announcer - screen frozen, transitioning to black.

"Woohoo! Another win for all amphibians everywhere! The mammal supremacy and all its corruption shall be overthrown!" The mechanic raised his stubby arms in a cheer. He then chugged his soda through a straw, slurping disguising, irritable squelches.

"Slippy!" Fox pivoted to his competitor with an acute intake of breath. "I meant show me the attack as in with the controller buttons, not blasting my face with it! That. Was. Beyond. Cheap!"

The toad wove his fingers together, stretching his joint palms outward. "Showing is another way of teaching." Spoken matter of fact with a dabble of mischievousness.

The victory fanfare of blaring trumpets and orchestral sweeps celebrated Slippy's win for the dozenth time tonight. Fox's ears bent; the sting of perpetual second place fuzzed his tail, which batted with a competitive curl. I will not be a sore loser next time, a promise Fox made at their last gaming session - a vow on the verge of breaking. No matter how much loss was infuriating, devastating or embarrassing - a casual gaming match between friends was not worth the vent of steam. Anger was far too extravagant of emotion, its maintenance too convoluted to curtail.

Losing was something Fox had never been accustomed to - for it rarely ever happened. Blessed with raw talent to become a jack-of-all-trades yet still able to master a plethora of disciplines. The diligence of studying grueling hours and committing them into practice, mixed with pedigree genetics and brimming monetary assets—all these were variables in a formula for undeviating success. Besides, gracious losers were simpletons who resigned themselves to failure. Winning might not mean everything, but wanting to win did. And Fox didn't merely want to be the best - he needed to be.

"Up for another round? I bet you'll win this time. Positive!" Slippy said, bubbly and unaware of his friend's escalating emotional thermostat.

The eternal best friend and tag-along. The sturdy rock to be leaned upon time after time. Slippy Toad existed in a cerebral world of ideas and concepts, where life's elusive mysteries could be shattered and interpreted through a mere scientific equation. Always reading encyclopedias and operation manuals, consuming them like a nourishing, hearty meal - every written clause absorbed and committed to memory, replicated for future use. Often he was engrossed in his projects, tinkering at the Engineering Bay of the Great Fox, spending time only with his people - the machines, just as pragmatic and linear as him.

Still prone to a clumsy tumble and a flair for apologies, easier to placate and self-harbor blame than confront. Not to mention his idiosyncrasy of sleeping in unusual places - practically allergic to retiring in his own bed - with a preference for all-nighters spent fiddling with gadgets at the crafting workstation. The team would peek around the hangar corner, witnessing his stubby legs dangling off the rolling cot used for maintenance under the Arwing, his fist still gripping his wrench. Both the plane and pilot's engines were equally depleted of fuel.

Upon the sophistication and visage of expert technical knowledge were eyes beaming deep and quixotic, hoarding years of innocence that were impervious to corruption. Safeguarded from all the violence wreaked months ago, even after being led on and off the battlefield. Fox wasn't sure if it was simply naiveté or the altruistic tenderheartedness that sheltered his friend from the cruelty of the universe. Giggling, laugh lines dented and shining, just bleeding joy from a heart-shaped face. When Slippy's sunny side egg flipped, it always landed topside.

Happiness or relief should have been the operative emotion that his best friend was so well-adjusted and thriving, especially when compared to the rest of the team. But raw envy burned in Fox's chest. So taxing it was to wear two faces simultaneously. The toad trusted first and asked questions later; his gullibility could not perceive the illusions of hypocrisy that veiled mortal men's true nature. The war revealed to Fox aspects of the universe he never wished to know, of a profound evil that lingered in the heart of every individual, waiting to be unleashed. Baffling how the simple-hearted went on in life while the cynical become more troublesome, cursed to bloat and gag upon the baneful poison they spit.

Fox sprawled out, inclining into his crinkled bag chair as plastic beans scuttled about. "Ugh, Slippy, you're so good at this game. Have you ever considered going pro one day? Being a professional career gamer with endorsements and all that?"

"Not really, no. Someone has to run the maintenance diagnostics and keep the Arwings online. Our shields and weapons have to be calibrated at optimal settings for the next battle."

"Yeah, the next one. Whenever the hell that will be," he mumbled with a clenched jaw - craving for that tiresome loop of victory music to cease playing.

"Hey, Fox?" Slippy sat the controller down in his lap to exchange it for a soda can, which he delicately spun in his hands. "Can I ask you a question?"

The vulpine sat up to grab and pop a tater tot in his mouth. "Uh-huh. Shoot."

The toad grimaced, stuttering: "Do you t-think I'm useful? T-that I'm worthy enough to be a member of Star Fox?" Shaking timidity regressing all those years of speech therapy.

"What? Useful? That's such a random question! Of course you're useful, Slip." Fox's eyebrows furrowed, the crunchy, fluffy texture of potatoes soured by the topic shift. "You remodeled the Arwings and had them primed with top-of-the-line tech. Our laser upgrades practically shredded through armor like butter. Plus, without your vital warfare analytics tools, we would have never been able to predict the integrity of enemy shields or pinpoint the weak points of those behemoth crafts Andross threw at us." He stopped to ponder just how small the toad made himself appear, shrinking in his chair. "Why do you ask?"

"S-sure, I enhanced the existing Arwing tech my father created and worked out some deals with Space Dynamics, but-" The toad's green cheeks mottled to a bright red tinge. "I wanted to prove to everyone I'm not just the clumsy nerd always needing someone to rely on. Despite that, I'm just a mechanic in the end. Not a real fighter like the rest of you. Peppy, Falco - and you especially - saved my life numerous times, putting yourselves at risk. I've been feeling kind of guilty about that."

"Aw, Slip, you shouldn't! That's being part of a team: we help each other. The mission is not only to win but also we all make it back in one piece. Slippy Toad, Chief Engineer, is an equal member of Star Fox like everyone else. There is no I in team, as they say." But there is a 'me.' Glancing to the side, Fox then cocked his head. "I thought I told you something to that effect before."

Slippy waggled his controller, reestablishing its wireless connection to the gaming console. The victory screen faded back to the main menu. A new calm melody leveled out the room, consigning clarity to each speaking voice. "You haven't, so I needed that. It's good to hear it from you just once."

Just once. The mechanic spoke words as if projected through a communicator all the way from Sector X. Detached and distant. Fox surrendered with cagey smiles instead of apologies - a substitute for vindication. His own hesitation almost stung as much as being struck by the blunt force of the candid, unfiltered truth. Slippy wasn't criticizing Fox as the individual - not entirely so - just his leadership role. A mere observation or insight shouldn't instill such an enduring sensitive pain, and yet-

"B-but I knew everything was going to be fine since I had the three of you to look up to. Peppy is just as much my uncle as he is yours. Falco is an incredible talent and brings so much fire and spunk. And I could never, ever, let you down. That's why, despite everything, I didn't hesitate to join the team because I realized this whole conflict isn't about me or just what I wanted." Large eyes squinted tight as enthusiasm glowed from the toad's smile. "I wanted to protect the people that were closest to me but also protect our right to be remembered. I'd like to think that no one exists solely to just end up dead. The friends we've made, all the happy memories between us - that has to count for something."

Perhaps it was the flickering of the television's glare soaking into the room's shadows, but Fox froze in place, sight gripping upon a faint light that radiated from the engineer. An aura, a voiceless strength vibrant in humility and righteousness. Never requiring its existence to be heard for its spark had always lived, even when unnoticed behind Fox's extinguishing light. What a luxury it was for a warrior to fondly remember their former life unfiltered through the lens of battle. To be so beholden in their own verisimilitude. To still taste joy's ambrosial warmth, relishing the entirety of its nourishment. Fox's heart ached to possess such a gift.

Was this the same timid child he grew up with? A tadpole with band-aids tattooed at scraped knees, snot-nosed dripping and mixed with tears, tugging for comfort at his sole friend's plaid school uniform. At boarding school's gates of spear-tipped steel fences, fumbling after the hovercraft taking off mid-flight, pleading shrill cries to not be abandoned and left to fend for himself. The young kit remembered the vexing snickering of classmates, the crude paper planes crashing upon the toad's desk, its mahogany surface marred with graffiti and disparaging imagery.

The toad's weakness was blood in the water to a school of sharks. Give them less than five seconds and they'd scatter off with his webbed feet and slime. Only the little devils could interpret separation anxiety and poignant tears born of unfathomable loneliness as a curse to exploit. Such was the cruelty of children, the ingrained desire of establishing the pecking order before such foreign concepts of empathy could be nurtured - or understood. Fox had to defend Slippy; he had no choice. The phone conversation he overheard weeks before their arrival echoed upon his damp pillow at night.

Beltino? It's James. Yeah, I'm still managing, and I appreciate the support. Listen, don't wanna beat around the bush, but I have a favor to ask of you. With… with the house being so empty, Junior can't be left all by himself while I'm out working. He's just too young. Might just trip a wire or leave the stove on and burn the whole place to the ground - hah! So there's this boarding school outside of downtown. Yep, that's right, Saint Lynx Academy - the primo school all the celebrities send their boys to. I'm talking top-notch academics and after-school curriculum, luxury dorms, and the best education that a near-college comparable tuition can buy.

If I'm not mistaken, your son is about Junior's age. If you're willing, I'll cover his entire bill as long as he rooms with Junior. Oh, of course, I'll pay until they graduate. Good deal, right? Since Slippy will follow in your footsteps, being a genius engineer like his pops, he's going to need an outstanding education to nurture that budding talent. He could probably attend, but not without a scholarship, I'm afraid.

…You will? Perfect! You won't regret it: your kid is going to love it there. They can watch each other's backs while they stay at a new home away from home. Hell, my dad did the same for me, and look how I turned out.

"Are you okay, Fox?" Slippy piped up, studying his friend's vacuous, blank stare as if Fox had been clobbered twice over.

"Oh. Y-yeah. Just remembered something." The hero sighed, rearranging his t-shirt collar. "Anyway, thanks for telling me how you feel. I need to step out and mingle more often. A leader still needs to check on his team regardless of whether he's exhausted from Pepper's demands. Even if it's just to hang out and get his ass handed to him in Super Crash Brothers."

"No, it's okay!" Slippy shook his head several times over. "I can't keep Fox McCloud all to myself like when we were kids. You've just been in your room a lot or been busy fulfilling your remaining war contract duties. Everyone needs their space - including you."

Fox's throat bobbed with guilt trapped in his chest. "Hey, um, not to change the subject, but were you in my room at all today?"

"I would never go into your room without permission." Frowning at a potential transgression that never once crossed the mechanic's mind.

Fox's gaze trailed off down the hall towards the dormitory wing. If it wasn't Slippy who went into my room, and Peppy has been on base all day, that means- "Slip, where is Falco? I haven't seen him around all day."

"I think Falco went off base by the pier a few hours ago. Earlier, he mentioned something about 'hanging on the stoop' and 'wilding' if he was cooped up inside any longer."

Fox blubbered through his lips. "Yeah, that sounds like our blue birb-a-turb."

"… Birb-a-turb?" The toad blinked. "What does that even mean? Is that a reference to something?"

"Huh? No, it's just, uh, something stupid I made up on the spot. Just fun nonsense that doesn't mean anything."

"If it doesn't mean anything, then why use it?"

"Because I can, that's why." The pilot frowned, his annoyance soon truncated by the toad's diverting curiosity. "Okay, it's like this. If everything you said always had deep, complex meanings behind it, it would kind of diminish the significance of your words, wouldn't it? How can anything be special or impactful if the expectation is to take it so literally and never say something light-hearted? There need to be levels and distinguishing variants. To take the piss out of the seriousness of life: that's the beauty of some gibberish."

Nodding slowly, Slippy's demeanor stilled to aid in observation as if encountering a new scientific equation. "So, there's beauty in calling Falco the equivalent of something foolish and annoying?"

"Not just beautiful, but deathly gorgeous. Falco needs to be knocked down a peg or two, always crowing like a puffed-up rooster that runs this henhouse."

"Oh. That makes more sense. I guess." Slippy's head tilted to the side, eyes wandering far off to consider and process this revelation. He mouthed the new phrase silently, testing its use before speaking into existence. "In that case, he's a birb-a-turb, alright. I'll say that the next time he doesn't thank me for tuning up his Arwing."

"Now you're getting it!" Clapping his hands, Fox twice attempted to haul himself off the bean bag chair, skittering into plastic pellet hell before successfully walking away. "I'm going to check on our feathered tire fire. Maybe I can convince him to join in our next multiplayer match, and we can secretly team up on him. Be back in a second."

The toad waved off Fox. "I'll be here! Maybe with another bag of Cheesy Cheetah Sticks and a liter of Dr. Peccary."

"See, that wasn't so bad to let Fox know how I felt." Reaching for a handful of chips off the table, Slippy stuffed his mouth with a crunch, salt flying and brushing upon plastic gaming handles. "It was nice to play with someone else besides the AI for a change."

Single-player/Classic Mode/Select Your Character

Jumping out the Great Fox and onto damp concrete of its landing pad, Fox ventured past the CDC base's chain-linked perimeter of razor wire to beeline for the beach boardwalk, but not before a quick salute to the Cornerian flag flying off a security post. A flutter of relaxation stretched in his strut, eyes entranced by the rhythmic push and pull of distant waves breaking upon the shore, sweeping back silvery ribbons of glistening sand. Here was the planet's skin, exposed and liberated, where rain, river, and sea compiled together into the collective of every droplet cycling life back into the atmosphere.

Surrounding contours of the massive anatomy of water shared an identical dynamic allure of outer space. Perchance many centuries ago in a former incarnation, the pilot's calling would have been a sailor's life. Avast upon a mighty galleon with a single foot upon the ship's bow, equipped with both compass and telescope, commanding troops from port to starboard. And what would a maritime fantasy be without mariners sloshing pints of hearty grog and crooning sea shanties, slurring dedications to their young captain. Sailing out on an adventure of infinite possibilities and thrills of dangers unknown, to destinations ripe for the emergence of heroism and golden riches.

A rampart of dark-green clouds swelled along the night horizon, rising to eclipse the cartography of stars and its dazzling guidance to the lost and shipwrecked. Draft ocean tides foamed and frothed white like the dripping snarl of an enraged beast. Such whirling turbulence born of a tsunami of Corneria's drowning waters on the opposite hemisphere, now reduced to mere ripples at the other end of the world. An arctic chill washed over the sea yet infused with the balmy warmth of a clement red summer moon. It brushed past sand reeds warbling like woodwind instruments, launching gemstones of moonlit dew to surrogate for the stars.

Fox shivered and buttoned up his flight jacket. The heat of midsummer's day was deceptive to the upwelling glacier-like chills of the ocean. His periphery scanned the borders of the base's fortifications to the blunt dowels of dark lumber around the pier's steps leading beachside, then flickered to the shore. The muffled inner child in all his ecstatic spontaneity bewitched Fox to dip just a paw in. A refreshing, icy plunge promised to soothe aching, weary bones and muscles, each energized like music under the skin to dance in goosebumps. But the dejected rationality of adulthood forewarned of soaking fur and the numbing ice prickling under Fox's soon-to-be shivering pelt.

Would it indeed be too cold for a risky night swim? To take a chance skinny dipping into salt waters so close to base? On the other hand, a fate of instant hypothermia could have its uses, like a surefire, unassailable excuse to get out of Pepper's next excruciating meeting. Yet, if by slim chance the ocean was warm enough, then perhaps…

There were a hundred ways he could have done it. He could nosedive barefoot off gritty wet sand, huddling at the knees to cannonball in midair, or perhaps a free fall backward off the plank for crested waves to catch him. Any method sufficed so long as he sunk to where the seaweed entangled, to the oyster shells clamped around their hidden pearls. Sinking away from the corroding, immortal lights of Corneria City, where the harpoon of camera flashes and wails of mewling citizens desperate for their savior could no longer reach him. The calls dialed out - disconnected. Communication channels - severed. Unfortunately for them, the savior would prefer to swim.

Call it evading social responsibility or delusions of grandeur altering an affirmed, doomed reality - the civilians were free to misinterpret this however they chose. For the hero proclaimed a moratorium on the pretension and falsehood of glamor and fame. An end to nights invaded by insomnia, a soul yearning to journey towards seclusion towards inner peace. He wanted to be a kayak with no passengers, only the streams of free will dictating his journey.

Here, in the plummeting depths, dwindling to the ebb, liberated by the riptide to the heart of the ocean, the burying sensation of water pressure squeezing down, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper until-

All inertia lost, endlessly floating, submerged into a mute, serene, immaterial existence. To become a being without a name or purpose. A soul capable of no tears, fears, or smiles. The entire world drowned out into singular, infinite omnipotence - ending and beginning with what one precious deep breath allowed.

It would be oblivion. It would be paradise.

But… the water was most likely too cold. Indeed, if fortune had willed it, it would be warm enough again once more.

His lips pressed tight into a bitter smile. Him? The Fox McCloud? To actually have a chance at the reprieve of swimming, no matter how trivial of an event it was? Logic dictated that he was doomed for criticism regardless of whatever choices he made - the curse of the blinding spotlight of fame. Like a wide, disingenuous smile at an inappropriate moment, a statement edited and filtered out of context, or an off-color joke bouncing off another fractious citizen, dogmatic and stone-faced to the hero's heedless sarcasm. Even just the inaction of simply standing still as General Pepper's erected statue in Central Square - simply just being there - someone somewhere was bound to take offense to anything he did.

No - he couldn't risk the humiliation of another military board questioning his conduct, old military dogs sneering with barks of laughter, savoring the pleasure from the stones they threw. Better to dream upon the shore, left to indulge in the fantasy of wishful thinking than take a chance of being caught. He scoffed. To dream - what a pointless endeavor. If all dreams were destined to be more extraordinary than reality, then Fox never wished to sleep again. Hope could no longer sustain a malnourished spirit.

A breeze tousled the vulpine's fine fur, orange and white bristles fashioned by the wind's flow. Fox sniffed - then gagged - stomach revolted by a stench textured of foul low tide fetched in by the waves. All the unpleasantries of heaps of sundried trash, slicked and spilled oil waste, and decomposing floating sea life. As he turned away, he caught sight of a shape formed of a knife-like gold beak, dark blue tail pinions and a feathered wreath of gleaming, vivid red.

Either industrial water pollution is on the rise, or Falco skipped a shower. Gross.

Standing sentinel at the pier's brink was Falco Lombardi. His uncanny bird-of-prey vision locked in the ornery curve of half-hooded eyes, tilting his head aloft, his vigilance aimed like a guard confined in a watchtower for an approaching storm or an unknown encroaching force. That stock, grating machismo - once so boisterous, rowdy, and often too prideful for company - now soothed under the basking of moonlight. Self-contained and resigned to the cold, isolated and marooned on the pier's salt-weathered planks.

The wind flared his jacket, whipping like a purple, orange and chestnut brown flag - just a visual white noise of clashing colors. A bump of contraband bundled under a rolled-up white tee sleeve, no doubt the usual pack of Dromedary Lite Slims smuggled on base. Head feathers plastered back with bottled, shaken hairspray applied so thick that Fox could almost taste the acerbic aerosol chemicals. His style was reminiscent of past days running with a biker gang, capturing that fine medium of greaser sleaze and street hustler appeal.

Once an urban rebel, revving a hover motorcycle burning rubber miles over the legal limit, fleeing the police blazing sirens throughout the rousing bustle of Corneria City's congested highways and sky lanes alike. Now just a mercenary, unshackled at last from military dress protocol while off duty - even as a free agent.

Fox strolled onto the pier as a splintering of rickety floorboards creaked under his boots. Staggering in place, the falcon spun back with a lurch, gaze sweeping down the barnacled wooden path before honing on Fox, where it remained. Chest rising with hitched breaths like startled out of a trance, talons clasped upon an indiscernible, metal object.

"Damn it." The ace pilot cursed, stowing the item away in his pocket then calling out in a huff. "Ay yo, Fox. Over here." Limber neck ruffling and nudging toward a spot beside him.

Fox joined his squadmate and leaned against the edge, careful not to nudge elbows, intruding on Falco's chosen perch. Two pilots captive to the gravity of land, the call of Lylat's celestial sky now a siren beckoning for their return. Fox was surprised that the bird had not taken flight, morphing into quicksilver as he often did when faced with unexpected company. He glanced upon Falco's shoulders constricted in a rigid hunch, face grim and woozy as if overheated from a sprint or coming down from an incensed tirade. Then to the military-issued blaster handle that jutted out from his jeans pocket - silently stowed with safety trigger off.

"Alright. Since you're here, I ain't gonna front with ya. I'll fess up." Falco sniffed, wiping his beak. "It was me. I did it. And let me tell you - boy, do I regret doing it now. That's the facts."

"Glad to see you had a rare moment of clarity, Lombardi. We both know I prefer not to put on my leader hat if unnecessary. Especially on, well, literal shore leave." Clearing his throat, Fox kept his focus away from the gun. "Get it? Shore leave? Because we're on the beach shore?"

The ace pilot forced out a laugh - dry and deprecating. "Are you really cracking a goof and then trying to school me on it? That's insulting my intellect. I might have been raised on the streets, and I might be new to mercenary life, but I ain't new to people or sarcasm."

Ah, yes, that quintessential Lombardi disposition, ever the contrarian testing the limits of authority. Someone says go left, Falco goes right. Another says to pick up the slack and get to work, and Falco would respond with all the elegance of a protruding middle finger. Better to just chat and get it over with. A conversation doomed to drag on like the agony of removing a band-aid unpurposed for adhesion to fur - thanks, Peppy, for that one time.

"So much for the sugarcoat. Clearly, you're a diabetic." Sighing, Fox traced circles into the wood. "Falco, just tell me why you did it and all will be forgiven."

"Why did I do it? Because I got mouths to feed, pal: my own!"

"…What?" Fox squinted, neck retreating backward from the falcon's jutting beak, a bit too close for his liking.

"So what if I used up the last schmear of cream cheese, the regular coffee, and ate the whole supreme pie we got delivered? You know I ain't laying a feather upon Slippy's usual fly-and-pesto special. We're freaking heroes and should be downing champagne. Instead, we're living off a lemonade budget - what gives?"

"Falco, what are you even talking about? I'm not here about the mess hall rations or our food budget. Someone broke into my room without my permission. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"O-oh. You're not?" Stammering, Falco cleared his throat. "Then I take all that back. On everything. I don't know nothing about no break-in, but I bet Slippy did it." Then fussed to refit his jacket sleeves. "Definitely Slippy."

"So it was Slippy - my childhood friend that I've known for years, mind you - who barged into my room, rifled through my desk drawers, and left a very personal possession out in the open for me to discover." With a shrewd grin, Fox examined his clipped claws, amused at his co-pilot's flimsy misdirection.

The falcon's fit, lean form went still. Beak clenched shut almost as if it were glued and mashed together. "Yep. I-I bet you can check your door for fingerprints. You know how he's always leaving grease stains and oil blots after wrenching the Arwings. Tinkering those wires and gizmos-" Falco counted out each point with an unfurling of a finger, "the nuts and bolts-" bowing a few more down, "the thing-a-ma-jigs and the G-Force carburetors-".

"Falco-ooo." Fox tapped his feet, frustration offsetting the amusement.

Prodding his index fingers together, Falco looked away in a huff. "Okay, okay, don't be bugging - I confess. I wanted to talk, knocked on your door, you weren't there; this, that, and the third - and next thing I know-" murmuring so faint that the words just fell from his beak, brisk but obstinate. "…I might have peeped through a bit of your dumb journal."

Swerving back with exasperation, Falco waved his arms into a flurry like buffeting wings taking flight, more animated than ever. "Sorry, but so what? Crucify me for being a bit curious! Who died and made you sheriff of private journal town, eh? In my defense, scribbling 'Keep Out' in bold letters on the cover is an open invitation to former crooks like me. I got twitchy hands and empty pockets - the allure of the taboo just makes it all the more irresistible! So if you're gonna kill me, just get it over with quick. It's practically mercy compared to what Peppy prescribes for trespassing."

"Uh. Apology accepted? I think?" Fox piped out with a tart tone.

Well, that was humbling. I give it a 4/10 for lack of sincerity. Mental note: upgrade the locks. Second mental note: Make the locks fingerprint coded.

Falco produced a large comb from his pocket, raking it through his feathers. "Real talk, though. I see you getting reclusive. Swerving around, not your usual gung-ho self. Things haven't been easy for me either. I thought you might be feening mad like I was. I didn't know how to ask you without fronting, so I wanted to confirm my suspicions and-"

"And invading my privacy by reading my journal was the best way to find out."

"Excuse me, Fox McCaustic! Hindsight is 20/20, and I realize that now." Falco swiped the comb down like a switchblade, twirling it twice before sliding back to its pocket home. "Look, I'm not the type to get in my head, but I've been thinking a lot lately. Really hard. For the first time, I'm constantly thinking about things so much that I'm thinking - get this - about thinking itself as a concept! All off-the-hook philosophical and shit. It's nuts!"

The hero felt his eyelids droop. "Is thinking uncommon for you, or what?"

Groaning, the falcon smacked his palm to his forehead. "Jeez Louise, Fox! I was about to pour out my heart and soul to ya and you do me like that?"

"Okay, that was totally uncalled for. Seriously, I'll stop." Fox ran his fingers across his lips to zipper back the sass, though his cheeks puffed a few times as he choked back his laughter. "So, what has been bothering you then? It's not like you to brood about anything." Except when you run out of your industrial-grade hair gel.

Groaning, Falco's eyes closed to slits, simmering while the snickering ceased. "This is gonna sound really fucking stupid, but-" The fog light from a lighthouse scoured the ocean's surface, cutting across the ace pilot's dour expression for a moment. He paused to digest the staggering silence, gathering the strength to continue. "I've been mourning. For Corneria City."

"What do you mean mourning for the city?" Fox blurted out. "That's just, er-" Studying the tic of regret pinching over Falco's beak, he hedged back the flare of sarcasm to the wind. "... a fascinating observation. Please, continue."

"We come from different walks of life, Fox. The must and grimes of the city streets was my school. The abandoned, run-down factories were my orphanage. East-side of the metropolis, where I was taught the brutal hard-knock lessons that the gentrified, moneyed quarter could never imagine from their skyscraper condos. Like how to finesse a good break with a drug dealer. Or knowing a fistfight never ends with a snuff to the face but a knife to the gut. But now that we're back from war and alive-" Falco knocked on the wooden railing for providence and luck. "The city isn't the same as before. All I can see are the Venomian bastards that attacked her. And all the Cornerian cowards that fled while she burned."

First Slippy, now Falco giving me a heartfelt confession? Have I really been this oblivious to how my squadmates have been feeling lately? I mean, I kind of have been primarily focused on myself, but-

"Fox, my man, this is real talk, so make sure you listen carefully. I am gonna let you in on one of the most important facts of the universe." A crisp chill fogged off Falco's breath like gunfire smoke fresh from a barrel. "People are shit. Once you fully accept that, making decisions in life is so much easier."

"In what way?"

"For starters, consequences are easier to go over when you only have to think about yourself."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Not entirely as much as I did before. Man, things were so much easier when I did. Pretending not to care is easy. Giving a damn is hard work."

The falcon's diehard creed was uninhibited, point-blank honesty. Wise up, play it cool, but always pack heat. Anger was his shield, always spoiling for a fight. Spreading like wildfire, reactionary and indiscriminate, criticism burning at the feet to any potential victim caught in its blaze. Better them burning than ever risk being a victim himself. But behind that anger was an entanglement of a maze, complex winding halls that warned off outsiders from traveling further, designed only to guide its keeper back to the pain so cautiously held within.

"You know about my gang life. The surplus of misdemeanors and felonies on my record. If I hadn't been cuffed by the CDF, tossed into the slammer and then handpicked by General Salt N' Pepper to bail me out, I'd never be rolling with Star Fox. It hit me halfway through the war that this shit was real. To actually use my years of piloting mischief to … fight. To survive. I've done my fair share of crime, but I-" Casual words couldn't mask the beads of sweat rolling down the falcon's cheeks. He didn't seem to notice. "I'd never taken a life before."

He at last found his voice, albeit hoarse. "So, uh, yeah. Tough shit, am I right? I knew what I signed up for. At least you had a good reason, Fox. You could avenge your pops. Something worth fighting for beyond just credits or glory. But me? I'm just here to repay my debt to society - I really had no stake in any of this. So I fought for the worst reason imaginable: nothing meaningful at all."

Heavy winds buffeted another crashing, hefty wave upon the shore. The tide's water current pulled - muted. The moonlight seemed to scorch.

"Fox, now that your dad has been avenged," words hung in the air like a leaf rustling the wind. "What motivates you to pilot your Arwing? To continue to take up arms and push on? What are you fighting for now?"

Fox's heart pounded as heat throbbed through his ears. "Are you kidding me? What I'm fighting for? Come on, isn't that obvious?" Waving off the ludicrousy with a blubbering raspberry, his diaphragm tightened to force out all the air in his chest. "T-that's easy. A lot of things, really. Like-"

As if on repeat, the words that left Falco's beak replayed over and over - steadily engulfing his thoughts with a hypnotizing captivation. Fox clamored, his mouth ceasing to respond. Like the blaster by Falco's side, the question had fired and pierced a vital organ within him. More profound and visceral than even regret, as if it attempted to conjure up a new emotion that Fox had not been ready for - or even ascertain. Questions stacked upon questions, and so few answers could be found. What are we to do but create our own middling solutions to these never-ending problems?

"I. Um. I'm… I'm fighting for-" Fox felt his eyes practically crawl up every wooden plank, trying to escape back to base.

What kind of question is that? Is he also critiquing my leadership skills like Slippy? Accusing my motives? Or lack thereof? No, quite the opposite. It's a legitimate one that deserves an answer.

I'm stumped. I don't know what to say. The answer is obvious, isn't it? Pull up your sleeves; cough down to the lower, presentable register for a proper man to speak with; and say the phrase we've grown accustomed with:

'I've trained my entire life for this moment, honing the skills necessary to protect my home planet and its citizens, along with the friends, family, and the people who have supported me. To take up the helm of Star Fox is my family's legacy, and it is my duty, privilege and honor to bear wings and fly sovereign to Corneria's defense, serving as its guardians just as my father did before me.'

Falco's eyebrows squished together. "Uh, Corneria to Fox? You okay, bro?"

What am I doing here? On this stranded island? In this uniform, with blood on my hands? I just want to go home - back to the mountains - back to the manor. I just want to curl up on my bed, bury myself in a quilted cocoon and hibernate the seasons away. What choices are there when it comes to fate, but only to surrender? Andross needed to be stopped. He took my father away from me. What could I have done but walked down the path that was already laid out for me?

I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. I really don't fucking know. …This was never a choice - our choice, wasn't it?

Is this all there is left of my life: to be a dog of the military? To be punished for my sins, to be forever robbed blind of another possibility?

"Dude, your eyes got all fuzzy and dilated. Did you take something weird?" Rubbing the discomfort off his neck, the falcon lurched towards him.

Fox shuddered to a memory seeping from the base of his mind. He tried to shut out the visions of midnight overcasting the fields behind the McCloud Manor, but to no avail. The rumpled red scarf. Stopwatch clicking, goading and irksome. Frames of dark amber sunglasses merged into the darkness of night. Fox could stomach the yelling, the screams that cracked like a taskmaster's whip upon his hunched back, as long the coach kept his shades on. He couldn't witness it again - the scornful disappointment that scratched the coach's visage red with fury. Resentment boiled in Fox's guts, quelling and overwhelming the remnants of shame.

A wisp of a child, frail at the knees, threatening to give out while the ground boiled at his feet. Ankles biting like coiling snakes, sinking fangs to the bone. Sweat dripping past his lips, dry tongue swallowing the salt, dire for hydration.

Again around the track. Another lap, but faster this time. And once more. Pray that you don't trip or stumble lest the relay is reset. Until it's perfect. Until it met his standards. On the crescent end of the dirt track, he appeared so much smaller and weaker in comparison, the family resemblance so vague. Why couldn't he run with such natural ease and grace as his predecessor?

A worthy successor needed more stamina, endurance and willpower to overcome any trail when at last anointed with the crown. And when faced with a decisive breaking point, an insurmountable wall that only a giant could climb - a McCloud always arose from the ashes, failure nothing but a gift of insight to true strength.

Perfection was the path to his freedom - and equally to his destruction. But a father's pursuit of passing along such a prestigious legacy was merely the first step - not nearly enough to satisfy. What could one child do when ascertaining perfection was never the real goal but rather its maintenance once it had been achieved? Always finding another aspect to improve upon, two more goals birthed after one was mastered, diverging and seeking equal amounts of urgent prioritization.

To mourn for a parent was to mourn for a limb that could never be replaced. Once capable of reaching and holding, now violently severed with a hacksaw, unable to self-embrace no longer. And no matter where Fox ventured or what room he barricaded himself in, his head spun, tormented by all the surrounding empty space, knowing that he - they - would never be there to fill it. What good is to pick up the scraps of a foregone childhood? Like the lint lining a weathered pocket or a sole falling off a shoe, you discard what had no purpose.

Love needed to be cruel to surpass mere sentimentality. But his love was history now - intangible. If not to fill his father's shoes, his entire life's purpose to be defined by what others needed him to be - how he was supposed to act - what did the surviving heir have left?

The memory crumbled. "… I don't feel so great." An overwhelming wave of heat wracked Fox's body. His legs buckled, urging him to sit down. "I'm going to head back to the ship."

"Uh. Okay then, space cadet. Consider the conversation dropped." Falco jogged to catch up to his co-pilot, who staggered about. "At least take my arm, man. You look dizzy, so I'll guide you back. Just give me your-"