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

9. Chapter 8: Perceptual Salience Part II

Act One

Chapter 8: Perceptual Salience Part II

"Your gun."

Fox ceased all motion. Green eyes blinking off its glossy haze, the blur of Sargasso's clinic ward swam into focused solidity. His posture withered beneath the pirate lord's formidable presence.

"… Huh? Could you repeat that? I wasn't paying-"

"-attention." Wolf scowled, leaking an unfurling temper underneath a delusive sense of nonchalance. "I'm well aware. Me and you are gonna come to blows unless you get your shit together. I ain't in the mood to be repeatin' myself or fixin' to be playin' any games." The pirate extended a flat, open palm until his jagged claws reached mere inches away from the hero's taut neck. "Boy, your gun. Hand it over. Right quick."

Tilting his head backwards, the pilot pinched his forehead, mouth parted, fidgeting off the incipient tremor of shame of being lost in memories. Eager to rebound off the next crucial seconds and misdirect the lupine's edged skepticism, which threatened to flay his reputation with further ridicule - or at least attempt to dissect the remnants that persevered. Yet as Fox glanced beyond the divide of the grasping claw, vision cutting up the bristling of stygian silver neck fur honed into the narrowing red eye, smoldering with impatience. Fox gulped down his protest, suppressed before it could rise. Any attempt at diplomacy now destined to be a futile shot in the dark.

Sighing with a beat of frustration, Fox popped open the casing of the blaster holster strapped to his waist. The gun anchored his hand low, tethered to a wobbly grip, barrel perpendicular to the ground. Magazine casing still polished and barely smudged with few fingerprints, absent of even a sizzling trace or pressured-fused ozone of laser fire. Firearms were just another tool to master, simplistic in usage and design: just lift, aim and shoot. Never had a weapon instilled such aversion - a pressure to act - unbefitting to the valiant caliber of his bloodline. The loaned armament now more akin to an heirloom from an ancient, forgotten time - forbidden to the unworthy.

His qualifications were undeniable, for the proof existed in the accolades. Pristine academic achievements along with dossiers of fitness reports epitomize the picture of perfect health and vivacity. Attaining record-breaking scores at the shooting tournaments, Fox's name was immortalized by ornamental bronze plaques with the Academy's hall of fame. But these were earned by sunsets spent at the shooting range, sore ears bent by earmuffs, to the soothing ache from the reverb of steady fire that quaked every fingerbone. Banging the button to summon forth the perforated silhouette of an armed, paper figure - maximum points given for damaging the sternum or the skull's center.

Though the overall top distinction was held by another, under the moniker of 'Crackshot James'. And under his father's legacy was his own hallmark - a single point shy of first place.

But the longer the Wolf Pack blaster grip etched into the groove of dry paws, the memory of the rodent's dulled eyes sliding over his form washed into perspective. The crooked smile gnawed hysterical fear and gagged upon a scream that dithered within his throat. Shaking arms preoccupied in a self-embrace to wipe the flow of tears from welted cheeks. Rocking like a small child cradling themselves, desperate for comfort. Desperate for unavailing hope.

A chorus of the fallen of war echoed throughout the MidSector clinic. Thousands of enemies slain by his hand chanting for penance - daring the hero to finish the sworn pact signed by the blood of the fallen in the Lylat War. Another sacrificial body to feed the endless funerary pyre. To pull the trigger wrapped by tense hands coiled like a spring. But the target before him was no longer a paper or plastic target construction - a shredded prop to be discarded - but another young man thrown into the chaos of battle, just like himself.

What gives you the right to send so many people to their graves six feet under and not even know-

Here, alive, at the forefront - no Arwing for an alibi, no more affordable disassociation to hide behind a machine for his crimes. The inhibitions and fears; the wear and tear; every emotion, bias and dream - they are reduced, melted under pressure and channeled into a considerable flux. Formed into the realization that a single shot became the sole determinant of whether one continues to grow or fail. To live or die. Blood washes blood - and the young hero would have to be witness to his own actions at last - in the flesh.

"I'll be takin' that back." Stepping forward, Wolf pried the gun loose from Fox's latched clench with a yank, huffing off the younger man's unseemly squeal. "Feh. Kids shouldn't be playin' with tools they ain't ready to handle. The recoil of responsibility might knock em' off their tiny feet."

Clicking the safety lock in place, Wolf lobbed the red and black coated arms on the bedside table. The thump of impact near striking a plastic water pitcher into the web of electrical wirework and medical monitors. Fox glanced heavenward, thankful that his multiplying tally of injuries wouldn't soon include death by electrocution.

"Oh. Sorry there, Mr. Big and Bad. Was, uh, kind of drifting off there for a second." Rasping, the hero's speech accelerated through a restive chuckle. "My reaction time is a bit off today if the laser blast off my ribcage wasn't an obvious sign enough."

"Better be thankin' the stars it was just your side and not your freakin' gullet, boy."

BZZZT. A shrill siren at max decibel erupted from the intercom system. Fox clamped down on his ears, yet his eardrums buzzed with a flat grunt of dismissive judgment. He slumped back under Wolf's withering leer, which pierced him as if to say: Buck up, buttercup.

An automated voice leaked through: Attention. Attention. Attention. This is not a drill.

Residents of Sargasso - A reminder that Security Level Four has been invoked and is currently underway. There is an armed Venomian target who has fled off station. I repeat, there is an armed Venomian target who has fled off station. All onboarding and offboarding vehicles in hangars located within Mid and LowSectors are under lockdown and subject to immediate inspection. The enemy was witnessed to have stowed away onto a departing carrier craft. Do not panic. Either comply with Wolf Pack regulations or face punishment. Offenders will be imprisoned or eliminated on the grounds of conspiracy. This is your final warning.

"What a day. You almost got offed, and our target got off scot-free." Out from the pirate's habitual frown, he grumbled an upbraiding, chastising tone suited for an upstart adolescent than a respected foe. "Maybe I should have stayed at the Observatory Deck and kept walkin' on a slant with another glass. I'm too fuckin' sober for this shit."

Among the enveloping fluorescence of Sargasso's clinic ward fettered a stifling, bitter tension between the rivals. Born from vengeance and worn like an accessory - that all too familiar grudge emanated from the pirate lord's signature stare. Inexhaustible in practice, equally voiceless yet explicit, and thrumming with waning admiration and derision soaring for its existence. But the judgment with every unspoken second that tottered and lurched past did not subside its brooding focus. Not even the rapport built in confessions among a coulisse of stars in the Observatory could dull such umbrage.

Fox winced a tear, adjusting his grip to the clinic bed's side railing for support, hissing at the superfluous exertion of minor movements. The collision a few hours ago from the charging pirate arched his spine with a stark ache. A bolt of damp yet rough surgical dressings entwined around his bare torso and lean shoulders. Any negligible twitch or shift of posture scraped the bandages against the patch of burnt flesh and singed fur, coursing a network of pain down his thigh and swelling to his neck. Every pinched nerve joggled in hypersensitivity, the searing pain equal to the bluntness of Wolf's near-obsessive scrutinization.

Fox's second incursion to the medical bay within a mere two days. Should have asked Dr. Erwood for a punch card. Just three more stamps to get the fifth visit free. When you're covered by premium pirate rates, who needs military-grade healthcare insurance? No need for a written prescription to saddle anodynes when Wolf Pack raiders can raid the pharmaceuticals monopolies at the source. Just another painkiller skidding chalk to cake down his throat. Burn ointment gel to sting like a hive of provoked, killer wasps. The texture slimed down his fur like smeared pumpkin guts, all its seeds embedded into the scar's hook. It could have been worse - Cliff might have performed a lethal laser show with his body as the center stage if Wolf hadn't intervened.

"Just when I thought I got your hot mess all figured out, you just tarred and feathered me with that reckless stunt you pulled. Just strollin' into the line of fire without a care in the world - or for your life. What kind of mercenary does that?" Wolf's fists latched to his hips, sculpted chest thrust out as his elbows spread wide. "I've got a mind to knock your neck cattywampus for such foolhardiness, but I already settled that score when I dove in headfirst just to save your knickers."

Fox rubbed his chin. "Cattywamp- what now? Dial back on the colloquialisms, please."

"You are so citified it ain't even amusin'. Don't like how I talk? Then shoot me for it." Wolf simmered, hitching his belt up with a grunt. The bayoneted blaster jangled when hoisted, a lethal spitfire of repressed neon-purple fire near mocking Fox's presence. "Oh wait - I forgot - you won't. Ain't got the stones to handle business, not even if it means savin' your own hide while staring down the barrel aimed right at ya."

Prickling, Fox resisted the urge to sulk. "Not everyone is as spiteful as you are and immediately resorts to violence."

"You say spiteful? I'd say I'm practical. Rule of thumb: If I see a fire blazin', I put it out. But if I started that fire myself, there ain't gonna be no witnesses alive to tell about it."

"Wolf, is this really necessary? The lectures and all that?" Combing a hand through his unkempt hair, the vulpine snuck in an eye roll before delicately slumping to a half-hunch. "You've been nagging at me for more than an hour, even when Dr. Erwood was cleaning my wounds. Give it a rest already. Playing the pedantic orator doesn't suit you."

"Then do me the honors and explain your lack of logic so I'll stop diggin' to find it."

Hands supporting his ample weight, Wolf lurched forward then keeled at the knees, eye-level to Fox. "Just what were you tryin' to do when you wandered in? Wanted to reason with that loggerhead rat, didn't ya? Gonna spin a yarn? Sing some songs roastin' mallows by the campfire? Regaling with some riotous story that ya'll wag your tongues too?"

A flush of humiliation singed the pilot's cheeks. The bed rendered muffled creaks as he scooted closer to the edge in short hops, heedful of his wounds. "It's like I told you before - I was just trying to stop the fight. There was no point in escalating the situation to contention, Wolf. If given a chance, I could have talked with him. Maybe negotiate with Cliff to stop what he was doing and-"

"What? Negotiations?!" Wolf shouted, shoulders heaving with bridled infuriation. "With a fool dead set on bein' trigger happy? That's like bringin' condoms to a baby shower, Fox. A little late for that, don't ya think?"

Fox's nemesis baffled him. The audacity to speak as if he were an amateur or subordinate. In opposition to the very young man that utterly conquered their former battles in space, despite being injured with the folly of a blaster wound. Like a sculptor defeated by a slab of unchiseled marble, a visionary unable to mold a creation from imposing and ill-conceived expectations for a masterpiece. Just an image constructed by the pirate's mind, infatuated with the concept against the reality that Wolf believed - or instead wanted - his rival to be.

The door to the clinic's laboratory creaked open. The leaked stench of chlorine bleach mixed with acrid chemicals clung to the roof of Fox's sinuses. No doubt the silent duo comprising a white raven and an ebony feline had pressed their prying ears upon the door. The last thing Fox needed was Wolf's contrived performance of solicitude to attract an audience, spectating the firing squad lining up their shots.

"O'Donnell, what do you want me to say, exactly? That I fucked up? That you're the professional mercenary here, and I'm just a phony imitation - is that it? Why else did you fit me with a listening device if you didn't think I was capable?"

Digging through his pockets, Fox held the bugged silver Wolf Pack insignia up to the light. He flipped the badge like a coin of chance as it landed back in his palm, the brand of the former Star Wolf member's name glared back - blatant and grim. For his protection, Wolf had claimed, but for what precisely? To shield its bearer from the Wolf Pack? Or just insurance to protect the pirate's operations, microchipping the wielder like a lost pet, all to get the job done without a hitch?

The pilot balked, eyes cutting up with a fury. "No. That's not the only reason, Wolf. It's just not your style. You just didn't trust me to do the job. Like the way you wanted it done."

With an underhand swing, Fox tossed the insignia back to Wolf. Despite his limited periphery, Wolf caught the badge as if swiping a pest from the air with unnatural accuracy. Eye contact remained focused - unbreaking.

"Of course I didn't trust you. Credence should be earned, not given. Besides, you know what your pal Cliff was up to while you were gettin' snug with my collections bug?" Wolf twisted his fingers into the shape of a gun aimed at his own skull. "Boy was armed and loaded, cryin' out his swan song and ready to wreak havoc on his one-way trip to hell. If I hadn't confronted him, you would have been blindsided by an attack. And judgin' from the outcome, I was right."

"W-what?" Fox's mouth fell open. His expression blanched in disbelief. "He was going to ambush me? I-I don't know what to say."

The pirate billowed an audible huff of smoke down his snout. "Yeah, I reckoned you'd react like that. Better start backtrackin' off your high horse before you fall and break your neck."

"I made a promise to the Quartermaster that I would save his pupil, so I was going to try - even if Cliff is a complete lost cause." Fox grabbed for his arms, looking down. Wolf couldn't be convinced - so resistant to questions, immune to excuses. The pirate delved out the interrogations, never settling for one in return. "But what do I know about trying to help? I got fucking shot at for it too."

"You didn't count on the possibility, boy." An edge sharpened off the pirate's words. "And that's my fuckin' problem here."

"I thought your problem was the fact Cliff escaped because you were busy saving me."

"Damn it, Fox. You don't fuckin' get it, do you? I could give two shits about him gettin' away now. My issue is your indecisiveness, inaction, and sudden faint of heart! This ain't no battle simulation. There are no seconds chances with a reset button - but a real fight with someone unwillin' to show you mercy like I did. You could have been-" The lupine shook his head and muttered: "Your kindness is gonna get you killed someday."

Not just angry, but Wolf is… disappointed? A declaration of a truce, a single friendly chat, and he pretends to care? Acting like he's known the real me for years, almost better than I know myself?

He doesn't get to condescend to me like that. Not after everything we've been through as enemies. Talking down to me like he's my-

But I don't care what he thinks. Fox frowned, a rolling heat burned in his chest. And then, utterly convinced: I never did. Never will.

Metering the duration of agonizing silence, Fox's eye flitted in avoidance to gaze at the analog wall clock. The seconds marched on, yet the tick was silent - digits seemingly frozen in place. The pilot bartered to transfix on anything other than Wolf, smudging his dry thumbs on waxy cuticles, to the loose sway and dangling of untied boot laces, and leather heels smacking the ridged bed frame. Just anything to distract himself from that demonic red eye - to escape from formulating a response laced with sarcasm, doomed to be met with reprisal. The risk wasn't worth the reward - even if the prize was securing his treasured pride.

The pirate exhaled in defeat. A large hand spanned over his temple and red-rimmed eye, the raking claws providing a moment's relief from his chronic migraine induced by spirituous vices. Fox tingled, shocked that Wolf hadn't sliced that irreplaceable eye asunder. The pirate sparked another cigar under a handmade, freshly laminated 'No Smoking' sign. Each edge smoothed by the doctor's irritable hands, taped to the wall like a picture frame. Skipping to partake a lesson in decorum, Fox observed his nemesis clunking about the confines of the clinic, florid spiced smoke circles trailing behind him like a lasso.

"I set this opportunity up to jumpstart your heroic drive back into action - a chance for redemption. To prove not just to me but to yourself that the warrior in you ain't never left. The very same Cornerian hero, burnin' with the same passion, fire and fortitude that it took to win the damn war. I knew you were dealin' with somethin' fierce since our duel - somethin' malignant - but I didn't realize the true extent of it." The pirate's husky glib cracked with ambivalence, borderlining on bewilderment. He flexed his jaw, then paused as if to decipher an oncoming revelation or bask in the denial of its implications.

"For the head of Star Fox, this should have been easy. If you weren't even ready for a simple bag and tag like any other merc contract, how could you ever- '' The hook of the accusatory glower relinquished as Wolf's speech trailed off. "The severity of your situation… This is much worse than I thought. But what am I supposed to do with this? With you? Just so forlorn, willpower leached away, I just-"

Wolf muttered to himself in a tepid daze. A touch of neuroticism mired his pacing, chronicling the past events at the Lows as if no other soul was in the room. His signature drawl so muddied in twang, it was as if the words formed one run-on monologue, exchanging enunciation for inflections of a foreign dialect. Or as Wolf would likely expound upon in his rural, loquacious tongue: a voice clotted like trudging through a tar of molasses. An artifact of a time to his rearing - or lack thereof.

He stopped pacing to glance back at Fox, voice unexpectedly even and lucid. "That hesitation in pulling your gun, that deathly panic that struck you like paralysis - is that the same thing that happened during our duel?" Wolf watched with keen intrigue as the hero nodded. "How long has this been going on?"

"Forever. That self-doubt and fear have lived inside me for as long as I've been alive. It is a part of who I am. Years of struggling without measure. When other people sleep, they awaken the next day refreshed, energy filled to capacity and anew-"

An itch of gloom rested upon Fox's skull. A weariness spread over him like a faint murmur. Even a mighty rock will erode to streaming waters - no matter how gentle it may appear.

"But for me? I stumble out of the bed like I have legs that never have walked. Waking up more exhausted than the night before. Slogging through the hours. Living meal to meal. Pretending to act as a functional, sentient being." Fox wiped a drop from his muzzle and muffled: " 'A shadow of my former self' is how the expression goes: and I can't bear to stand in it any longer."

Fox McCloud could always sense when the entity hunted for him.

The personification of anxiety had no discernible body, but its volume and magnitude were limitless. It could not speak on its own but screamed and bellowed when attached to a host. From experience, it emerged from the solar plexus, bubbling and churning heat flushing the skin in a cold sweat. All to carve through flesh and blood with needle-like movements, roots constricted upon lungs, and cultivating seeds of doubt through whispers that fester into internal anguish. Still subtle enough to remain undetected and slumber, lying in wait for the next opportune moment to strike.

When it did strike, it took no heed of its surroundings. Whether it was the waking hours or during slumber, time and place were irrelevant, for the surprise made the hunt successful. Fox couldn't talk or be seen by anyone when it struck. With ample time, he could retreat to the privacy of his quarters in an attempt to retaliate. When Fox fought the entity, he did so alone. However, it was a familiar thing to him. The entity called to Fox with promises to fill the places his former loved ones had held before their passing, for no one person genuinely hid their torment.

With arms crossed, Fox rubbed at his scraped elbows with his thumbs. "I've always been able to compartmentalize my emotions. I was really good at it too. Masquerading as the perfect son, academic, or soldier was almost like working a second full-time job. But it's never been this… crippling. And now, one of my greatest fears is realized. Every damn person in this place and the rest of the galaxy will know that Fox McCloud, the savior of Lylat, is utterly, undoubtedly and unequivocally weak."

"Listen, Fox. I've got a lot of faults. I'm abrasive, overbearing and damn near dyed-in-the-wool ruthless without a lick of tolerance for weakness. And I can tell you this much," Wolf uttered as a passing observation, dry and automatic like the toll of a bell. "You're not weak, McCloud. Far from it. Don't ever let anyone else tell ya differently."

Yet the words failed to land, feeble in delivery, as if it were truly meant to be directed back to himself. This wasn't just worrying for his nemesis, or perhaps even a life put at risk. This was mourning another plan that backfired into failure, another wrench of faith that the strategist could not predict. Either that or just the alcohol deprivation talking.

"Aw, hell, alright. That's enough of my proddin' for one day. Clearly, the direct approach doesn't work on you." Punching a fist into a palm to shake off the shivering gloom in the air, Wolf then swiveled around - searching. "Boy, just a second. Let me find a - Ah. There's one."

Wolf swaggered off to another row of beds, dragging a chair back with him. He spun the chair in reverse to sit at the end of Fox's bed, his burly arms narrowly resting upon the back, thumb claws tapping a four-note measure. The cigar's flame, now wilted, gasped on its final breaths, struggling to illuminate the pirate's silver whiskers that bent with weariness.

A halcyon steadied itself into the room. Its tranquility waxed and waned, tension dissipating between the two men as fatigue then numbed Fox's limbs. Everything just smelled of sleep - of linen sheets, cold trapped pillows or an edible sunset of wilted chamomile in a teacup. Perhaps it was the godforsaken early hours or the shared, ragged exhaustion swaying between them: the lupine finally lost his bite.

"For years, I pictured you as clean-cut, all serious and uptight as can be. A diligent, eager Cornerian boy scout, raised in high cotton and eager to fit in his pa's oversized boots. But here you are, the legendary Fox McCloud, piddlin' about and soft as a hoecake. Not to mention sensitive as all hell and sarcastic to boot. Tossing off cynicism up there with the most subversive of nihilists I've ever encountered. Either that or your misguided sense of idealism has finally failed you. I still can't quite figure you out, but-"

He took a lengthy drag. A cloud of smoke floated overhead from the crook of his frown. He then spoke low and gruff, words shaped like a challenge seeping in honesty - "there is one thing that I surmised about you."

"Your mind is a maze. Never know what doubts and 'what ifs' are scrambling to get out. Dozens of emotions in your gut, and not one can pinpoint and detail what you're feeling. A blunt twinge ain't in your deck of cards. No, everything you feel is amplified tenfold. A papercut to me is a jagged knife to you. When you feel something, you're cursed to bend and twist, writhe and split apart, feeling every inch of that proverbial blade as it cuts you open."

Wolf lifted the tobacco from his lips with a flash of revulsion as if the flavor failed to meet standards. He smudged the cigar's charred tip on the chair's spine, dying ash spilling to the floor. "As looney as that sounds, there's a part of you that needs to process every second of the pain, even if it means wreckin' yourself silly - like your sufferin' is deserved. Hell, you never needed me to bully you. The way you go about it - you're too good at doin' that to yourself. "

"How is armchair psychology working out for you, Wolf? I already have one therapist back in Corneria City. I certainly don't need two." Fox brushed off the image of Dr. Lachman's twisting wrinkles with every frown. "Besides, I doubt your current coping mechanisms are any better." Fox cupped a hand as if to hold a glass, throat gulping exaggerated motions.

Wolf chuckled with a clenched half-smile, scratching the tip of his nose. "True. There's always a drink to take the edge off, but I know that ain't in your wheelhouse. I'll say I can think of a few better ways of copin' than with what you're currently doin'. Or lack thereof." The pirate studied his nemesis' wrapped bandages, then sighed, which rumbled like a growl. "How are you holdin' up there, Fox? You've been puttin' up a tough front despite your injuries. If you were a cat, I'd say you lost one of your nine lives, but clearly foxes have about ten."

"I've probably used up about three since I've been here." Fox rotated his arm as his joints flexed. "Would have been four if you hadn't shown up to save me. Knowing our history, I didn't expect for you to-" His rueful voice dwindled to a rasp. Gratefulness thick with guilt. "You saved me, Wolf. You saved us both. Thanks."

"Enough." Wolf's hackles jacked up as if Fox's gratitude punctured deep into a critical artery. "Earlier it was the excuses, and now it's that 'thank you' mumbo jumbo. That don't sit right with me, comin' from you. Makin' me hella uncomfortable right about now."

"But I want to show my appreciation. It would feel wrong not to at least acknowledge it."

The pirate raised both hands to shake in disinclination. "There's no need - a truce is a truce. That rat bastard doesn't have the right to glory in slayin' a pilot on his way to legendary status. That's my job, and I ain't fit to retire anytime soon."

A single knot within Fox's stomach unspooled in relief. "Now, had you just tackled me with that amount of force during our duel, you could have just won in seconds and have avoided this whole scenario of stalking me while I do your dirty work."

Wolf's bushy bough of a tail swung to the opposite side of the chair. "Maybe. But where would the fun be in that?" For a split second, the edge of the pirate's scowl tilted to a sportive smirk, only to dissolve back into detachment.

Give the meathead more reasons to want to fight us again, why don't you. Think about it. As long as a professional boxer steps into the ring, their check clears regardless of whether they win or get knocked out, seeing bright stars. Or baby chicks, if that's your preference.

Wolf raised the loaned Insignia to the light between his claws. "Speakin' of which," and he scowled at the name engraved in the back with a sudden hatred that made Fox's nerves jump. "How the hell were you able to figure out who the spy was so quick? You got some psychic intuition that I don't know about?"

"I can't take all the credit. A letter was left outside the observatory deck after our chat." Fox patted down his pants pocket, its leather stuck and smooth to his lean legs. "Wait. It's not here. Maybe I left it in my jacket? "

"A letter, hm?" Wolf smirked, stifling back a snort as Fox scrambled around. "Damn, you're slower than a Sunday afternoon. You gonna show me somethin' or what?"

"I am, I am! I know I had it before the fight."

Did it fall out during the scuffle? Or did the author of the letter somehow reacquire it?

Beep. Beep. Beep. The artificial chime of the resident AI from an unknown speaker from the ceiling.

"Lord O'Donnell. The Inner Circle is in session and wishes to establish a direct communication channel. Level five, top-clearance access required. Flagged for urgency."

"Hold that thought, McCloud. Gettin' a transmission patched through to my comm line." Wolf pulled back the sleeve of his leather jacket, poking buttons on a device strapped to his wrist. With a charged volt, a projected red hologram fanned across Wolf's right ear. Tapping the buzzing field's center with a claw, the pirate's voice dropped a register, staunch in its immutable authority. "This is O'Donnell. Deliver the good news or shove off."

Surprise then corroded the tame forbearance away from Wolf's features, unveiling the menacing expression and enmity of the man who domineered the most significant criminal organization in all of Lylat. The very same individual who bore the title of Leader of Star Wolf and Lord of Sargasso, whose legion of warships threatened both Corneria and Venom alike. His nemesis clenched a shaking fist, aching to grab the nearest hapless worker's head to smear across a gnarled, steel wall.

"Y'all been runnin' all over hell's half-acre for that spy, and this is what you decide to tell me now? Ugh. Keep my seat toasty for me in the Command Center. I'll be up in a jiff." Wolf groaned so loud the volume raised the fur on Fox's forearms. "Welp, it's back to the good ol' dishonest work. Cliff is long gone, but in his hurry to escape, he left behind his communicator. Decoding the rodent's secured channels back to Venom might score us the tip of a lifetime." Heaving himself up with a grunt, the pirate sauntered towards the exit.

"Wait, hold up a moment. You can't just leave yet." Sliding off the bed, blankets peeling off his pants, Fox's hand latched to his wound. Off-balance and off-kilter, paw pads streaking the cold floor with an awkward shuffle of feet. "What about our agreement for my freedom?"

"Yes. Our deal." Wolf gritted out. "Regardless of how the chips fell, I said get the spy off station, and you did what was asked. Not exactly what I had in mind, but you fulfilled your end of the bargain. I'll ping Panther to finalize your release. He's probably still schmoozin' with that damn doctor in the lab." And with a bitter spat under his breath, "Lazy, uppity, lewd cat."

"So… is this it, then? After everything that's happened the past few days, I'm just free to go? Just seeya - wouldn't want to be ya - and duel you later?"

Wolf shrugged. "Pretty much. Best of luck. Go skedaddle your way on home." Crafty-eyed and smoldering, the pirate smacked the hero's bare shoulder - with all the faultless intent of being reassuring. Fox's mind blanked and melted under Wolf's touch. The swinging force reverberated tremors of pain down the younger man's spine, wounds screaming under the gauze.

"Ow, Wolf, watch it! I felt that in my bandages!"

"Oh shit. Your injury. M'bad."

"You did that on purpose!"

"Honest mistake, really. Don't know my own strength sometimes."

The imprint detector glowed neon red upon the door, awaiting a handprint command to open. Hovering his palm above it, Wolf glanced back with hesitation, the aggression deflating from his stance - if ever so slightly. Would the pirate lapse back to another long-winded lecture? Fox couldn't sit any longer. His ass was bruised enough after that furred sack of muscle tackled him to the floor. Yet the shadows trimmed along the grievous hollow beneath his infernal eye, scathing across the helplessness in his foe's bandaged form. A rumbling, deep hum swelled within his chest, rising from his throat like a beast's howl among the vapors of burning cedar on a winter's night.

"Just a reminder that you're still my rival - mine. I chose you from millions of souls. The only one worthy enough to measure up to my own greatness." A long fang slipped out at one tilt of Wolf's rugged muzzle, outlining a vicious, seductive smirk. "Besides, our truce is only temporary, right? Against terrible enemies like me, Corneria will need its greatest defense - legendary heroes like you. And one day, since I haven't had the pleasure of knowing him yet, I want to meet him: the real Fox McCloud."

The automatic doors whooshed open - and with a shudder, closed shut. The pirate's leather jacket moved out of sight, chains and spiked boots soles shuffling quieter out of earshot. The heady, herbal smell of cigar smoke began to fade, dwindling to a mere whimper of extinguished coals. The hero stewed in a bleak stillness - somehow claustrophobic in the sudden loneliness of a room filled with empty beds. So anticlimactic and isolated - now fuming in anger intermingled with relief and shock. A part of him longed to chase after his rival, demanding restitution for his capture, a reluctant council of how to process and pick up the pieces over the past few days events, but now:

His lungs ached from the arguing - too weary from pushing the limit, too exhausted to care. Just left with one hell of a story to tell when he returned home. One thing was sure: his rival's smile would haunt him long after he'd left here.

"The real Fox McCloud?" He held his bandaged side. "Hard to find someone that never existed."

Fox McCloud - the war hero, the leader of Star Fox, the protector of Corneria. I'm all of these things, but I'm also much more than that. I'm-

A crash echoed from the other room - the sound of glass shattering - making Fox jump to his feet. Then a crisp voice spoke from further within, enunciating every rich vowel with prudence but jumbled with hurried dismay.

"Damn it. That's the fourth one this week. The finest education in the galaxy, and I'm still so oblivious to my surroundings. The price I pay for being so engrossed with my research."

"Worry not, Doctor. I'll take care of the mess, wouldn't want you to get cut, now would we?"

Following the sounds of hushed conversations, Fox arrived at the laboratory door - Authorized Personnel Only - its glass window fogged black from an eruption of chemical vapors, most likely from experiments gone awry. He opened the handle, leaning in to peer through.

---

Notice: Particularly Hazardous Substances

Lab Coat and Eye Protection Required

An overhead orange auxiliary sign had once read as a few of its fractured letters now flickered. About a third of the size of the clinic ward's hall of beds, the miniscule laboratory attachment could hold merely a few bodies in occupancy, its walls encircled by an alcove of shelves and locked cabinets full of hazardous chemicals. Each dented shelf burdened by solid microscopes, glass flasks and beakers reinforced to stir heated liquids or element compounds. Resin countertops outfitted with deep sinks and the accouterment of gas valves, the hiss of its corded hose leakage blustering to a whump; Bunsen burner now lit and daring to spread eager flames to an untied sleeve.

Fox loosened the door handle grip to walk in, but his intuition spurred a pressure building in the back of his skull. Something told him to wait before he made his entrance - if only just a few moments longer.

A burning stench then leaked out from an unattended crucible experiment on an office desk. With a raised wrist, Fox muffled his snout to ventilate the noxious fumes. Yet a wheel of sundry flavors rolled through the air, tasting a mild but nutty tartness darkened with rich bitterness. A whiff of chocolate caramel swirling in milk, melting sweet stickiness like candied tree sap stuck to the mouth's roof, and- wait, sweet? Perhaps even floral? He squinted back in - the crucible was but an innocuous pot of coffee boiling over a portable electric stove. A cup of immortality nursed by the hour, charging the doctor through an unrelenting workload. Beside the pot sat a crystal vase, once filled with bundled roses, now substituted for a trio of blue and purple dahlias, all loosely bound in a tied velvet ribbon.

Showcased at the desk's center was a small glass cylinder tank half-covered in a tarp, the other side rimmed in shimmering, luminescent ultraviolet energy. An aged blob of grey matter floated within, almost cadaverous, yet the porous, sponge-like fungal texture was akin to a toadstool mushroom or dry, hanging lichen. Countless wired appendages jutted out from the cage like slimed, undulating tentacles. The corded tail ends were attached to syringes embedded in its mass. The blob then juddered - almost like a spasm or intake of breath - as the needles inoculated, pumping with an unknown blue substance. The cylinder billowed mist from its entirety like a cooling mechanism, condensation twisting and shimmering down a dripping, ink-stained label. Its marked title's identification was rendered illegible.

The raven of the MidSector clinic ward came into view, groaning as she heaved a stuffed duffel bag across the lab floor as it was laden with cement bricks. With frail glasses dangling off the tip of her beak, she paused to wipe a cloth handkerchief across her brow. Often, her neck creaked from chronic stiffness, suffering timeless hours bent over her experiments, never one for breaking one's back over menial tasks such as organization or manual labor. The light of a heating lamp streamed across gaunt cheeks to another night sacrificed to care for another. Barely aware and present to permit the Star Wolf member stealing the occasional glance in her direction, dwelling admiration upon her every subtlety.

"Where did I leave my stash of hydrofiber dressings?" She gestured at Panther, hoary plumage fanning for his attention. "Mr. Caroso, be a dear and act as a second pair of eyes, please. Respectfully so, after you're done tidying up."

In fine spirits, Panther hummed a jaunty tune while sweeping up broken glass shards with a broom and pail; undoubtedly, the most content Fox had ever seen him. Well-conditioned coat shone with a tinge more ebony decadence than usual, achieved by hours lost in a mirror, preening with brushes laced with argan oils. Angular, rough-hewn face cut with a sort of benevolent condescension worthy of the Caroso syndicate's surviving descendant. Ditching the puffed-up guffaws and recurrent desires to belittle the unworthy, treasuring the time within the MedBay's laboratory, even when reduced to janitorial duties like an inferior grunt.

"Putting me to work, aren't you?" The Star Wolf member beamed, eager to help. He pointed to a corner of the lab. "You just missed it, doctor. The shelf to your left and a few inches right from the silicone adhesives."

Posturing a feigned bow, Dr. Erwood then adjusted her glasses to their proper, rooted position. "Ah. Thank you. Dependable as always. I'd ask for an assistant, but who knows what unfortunate soul the Wolf Pack might capture and shackle beside me to fulfill my request."

"I'm sure I can fill that role intermittently when my schedule allows."

"Doesn't the rose-wielding criminal have enough misdeeds and lawbreaking on his plate? Yet he still wants to make an effort to aid me in my lab. Curious."

"A criminal? Me? How absurd!" Panther coughed up his arrogance, fidgeting with the gold ring swiveled upon his finger. "A criminal is an entrepreneur who gets caught. I'm but a mere gentleman - a knight errant of the modern era. Magnanimous enough to bestow my services and time to our esteemed medical professionals."

The doctor's placid expression gave way to a yawn. "Chivalry truly isn't dead."

Panther placed the broom away, his golden eyes pinched with regard and curiosity, trailing the avian's pacing around the lab floor of knocked-over boxes. Twitching whiskers and wrinkled brows hovering over the raven focused upon her task of hoarding items. He peered into the bag brimming with supplies, his smile drooping in equal proportion to the bag's weight, mourning the lost time spent dividing the shares of pillage.

"And just what do you plan on doing with those bandages, exactly? Fox McCloud has already been treated for his wounds and is up and about - unless there's someone else you plan on treating today." A sly purr rolled off his scratchy tongue, slow and suggestive: "I don't recall needing a suture."

With a single eyebrow arched with suspicion, Erwood turned, engrossed in the polish of white fangs beaming from Panther's grin. "I'm packing Fox's belongings, along with a few supplies to offset such an eventful stay. I can't in good faith let him go home without a proper care regime."

"Ah, yes. Finally. Their quarreling just moments ago was literal music to my ears. I could have almost danced to it."

"And how exactly do you take pleasure in their bickering? Both are venerated for their combat abilities, yet reduce themselves to the juvenile schoolyard antics of squabbling and locking horns." She huffed. "It's not entertaining; it's pathetic."

Panther laughed as if to dismiss the dissent. "Why? Because Wolf at last came to his senses and ousted Fox McCloud off station! As head of Sargasso, he should be leading his men and safeguarding our defenses against Venom, not entertaining delusions of a fruitless revenge fantasy."

Fox rolled his eyes from the doorway. Thanks to Panther, I'm never planting or buying roses - ever again. They're a bit passé, really.

"We all have our delusions, even Wolf," Erwood said, neutral in response. "I'll admit, together they're an intriguing pair. To be enemies clawing at each other's necks - attempting to kill one another before - yet there's this odd level of respect between them. I really can't figure out their dynamic, though I doubt they have either. It doesn't make any sense."

Panther bent forward with his arms behind his back, surefooted with his approaching strut. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Branwen-" and paused at the informal faux pas, stuttering. "Er, Dr. Erwood-" He played off the moment with a smirk. "I couldn't help but notice that your medical reserves were well replenished just the other day, but some of the shelves are already bare. Our would-be Venomian interrogee didn't happen to stop by here on his way to escape, did he?"

"You have a bad habit of asking questions which you already know the answer to, Mr. Caroso." A wry smile carved into her beak, undeterred and poised. "He did - but like any injured patient in need of urgent medical attention shows up at my doorstep, I assisted him. I supplied him with what I could, as he was frantic to leave. Cliff is just a kid who made a few mistakes - albeit critical ones. He doesn't deserve to be tortured for the sake of your boss's vendetta. No one does."

Panther sighed, drained of any sultriness, left only with irritation. "That kid has been a thorn in my paws for months just trying to corner him. My mind is reeling from how to undo the sabotage to our supply chains and restabilize our routes from Venomian interference. And for you of all people to provide him aid now..." His features softened, another step forward to close the distance. "Surely, you must know how this looks by abetting his escape, yes? What with your history and affiliation with-"

"I know. And I don't care." Primly, Erwood sorted another box into the duffel bag, sidestepping the feline with a brushing of shoulders to rifle through the next set of cabinets. "And to answer your next question - even though I shouldn't need to - I had no involvement with Cliff's sloppy sleuth job, alright?"

The gangster followed a few steps behind. "Just so we're clear, doctor, I personally wasn't suggesting that. I'm just trying to protect you from further implications from people who would. Unlike some of my cohorts, I haven't been employed by Sargasso long enough to establish any true allegiance to Wolf's cause just yet, but you're on thin ice already with the rest of Star Wolf. I'll vouch for you at every turn if need be. That hasn't changed, nor will it."

Fox pressed his ear further on the door. Wait a minute. Was Cliff here at the clinic before he escaped off station? Doesn't that seem odd? With the scuffle on the Scavenger's Deck and Wolf too preoccupied in saving Fox, the quickest source of egress would be the hangars at the Trading Hub in the Lows. There were plenty of docked transporters off-loading goods to be sold at the markets. Cliff could have easily stowed away onboard or secured a random cruiser and, if Fox's memory held true, the rat's injuries weren't life-threatening enough to warrant treatment.

After attacking the very leader of Sargasso itself, there's only one reason Cliff would put himself in further danger and risk traveling to the MidSector Clinic. If it wasn't to get medical attention, then why?

"Panther. It's fine. Your boss already hates me; there's nothing I or anyone else can do to change that. What more do I have to lose?"

The gangster lifted his chin. A strain rattled his voice. "Everything."

"What did you say?" Erwood awakened from her trance of work with rapid blinks. She turned with a grimace, slack and nonplussed, clutching upon her stethoscope to lock from dancing in the air. So acclimated to the gangster's habit of embellishing the truth and waxing poetic, all the epithets of guile and voluble sweet-nothings sung to her ear.

"Stop. Just stop for a second." He reached to grab her arms, secure yet tender, repositioning to at last speak face to face. "You are already bound to this clinic, and I do everything I can to make your stay as pleasant as possible, so why risk more suspicion? There will be questions as to Cliff's whereabouts. Repercussions if anyone else finds out he was here. I fear Wolf and the Inner Circle will direct their blame of his escape to you."

With the feline's proximity and body heat, the avian's body crumpled, half-limp in his grasp. Wearied eyes crimped with shame, darting away. Erwood's instinct swung like a pendulum between flight and seduction - to slap across the feline's white scar, to shove him away, or melt in his grasp. It was not Panther's arms that held her but that blistering, golden gaze, ensnaring and enticing her to remain and listen.

"Why? Why did you help him?" Panther's grip softened, tone pleading. "Please. Just tell me the whole truth, if only so I can protect you. My honor forbids me to let a lady be left in harm's way. I assure you, Doctor, I am someone you can trust."

Her leer sparked with provocation, boring holes through the gangster, and she tugged herself free. The Star Wolf member's compulsion of false piety broke the last bend of tolerance. "I'm paying back someone who helped with a few favors, alright? Blood transfusions are always in demand. Cliff's connections with the Quartermaster allowed me to replenish our reserves. To cater to every unique species within the Wolf Pack's ranks is laborious as it is time-consuming. Ironic, I know, to have a shortage of blood, considering how much the Wolf Pack spills of their enemies."

"So you feel he deserves to be spared? After all the transgressions he's done? What good a few measly packets of blood does over all the lives he potentially put at risk, if Venom were to invade?"

Branwen frowned. "My opinion is irrelevant. You would have killed him regardless of how I felt."

"True. I'd probably slit that chipped-tooth rodent's throat and sent him off to float with the asteroids."

"Please, Mr. Caroso. Let it go. He's gone." She latched to his forearm, gliding fingers to skim across the hardened muscle. "If not for him, will you do it for me?"

A husky, rumbling purr escaped the feline, relishing in the silken touch. The severe tension slackened from Panther's jowls. "I… suppose I can look the other way this time if you feel that strongly about it. I shall wash my paws of him. The rodent's further survival is no longer my concern."

"I will not forget this kindness." She rested her effusive hand atop his black velvet paw.

"This hole I'm digging with Wolf cannot possibly get any deeper. Any more underdealings, and I'll be melting into a molten planetary core at this rate. And-" Concentration pulled his thick eyebrows together at the laboratory door, then widened in recognition by the orange-furred paw holding its metal frame. Instinctively, Panther wedged himself away from Dr. Erwood, dusting off his shoulders with a slight fluster. "Fox McCloud - right on cue." A warning juddered from his tongue - biting back his revulsion.

Fox stepped into the lab, hand still bracing his wound. "Sorry, I just didn't want to interrupt, er - whatever was going on." A single bead of sweat dropped to his neck, smoldering under the heat of Panther's ire. "And don't worry, you two. Your little rendezvous is safe with me. Nothing surprised me beyond what Panther had previously alluded to."

"Oh? Is that so?" She chuckled with a trace of a gentle chiding, eyes sparkling towards the dark feline gulping down his heaping humiliation.

"Ahem!" Panther cleared his throat into his fist. "Trifling facts aside, Wolf has given the orders for Fox's freedom, so it's time to depart, hero. I've already out-processed your Arwing locked within the MidSector hangar bay. Your ignition keys will be given to you by security stationed there." He then waved off at Fox like one would dismiss a servant. "So, uh, off you. Adiós. Encantado de conocerte. No vuelvas, por favor."

Branwen stepped forward. "Fox, I would ask you to consider staying at least another day before you're fit to fly back home."

"Oh no, no, no! I'm sorry, Dr. Erwood, but Fox has meddled enough in Sargasso's affairs these past few days, thank you very much." The feline's lips curled, speaking of every curse and more ill-tiding than an apology. His white scar crunched under his scowl, threatening to carve an exact duplicate across the subject of his ire. "That's right, you heard me, hero. You bumble aimlessly about the station like a fly in his final hours, soaking up our resources. I'll acknowledge your inconceivable feat of finding the spy swiftly enough, but your reputation for being skilled in battle has failed you."

"Panther." She chirped with admonishment. "Fox is still recovering after his duel and is not exactly in peak condition. Otherwise, I assumed he wouldn't have acted so recklessly earlier today."

"Doctor, I don't think his exhaustion had anything to do with his injudicious choice of actions and- Ouch!" The raven elbowed her associate's ribs. Gawking and nettling from the blow, Panther rubbed the spot to nurse the grind. "You can hit me all you like, but try not to wrinkle the cashmere suit, please!"

She lifted her palm, threatening to swat again - a playful gesture. "Mr. Caroso, will you watch the entrance to the lobby, please? I'd like to chat with Fox in private before he departs."

"And what exactly are you two going to discuss?" Fox observed as the gangster's face contorted through the motions of indignance, caution, and into appeasement - kindling to an odd fusion of all three. The feline's voice dropped to a low pitch, yet unable to bury the sum of his spiraling frustrations. "Fine, you may talk. Just think twice on whatever it is you wish to divulge, doctor. The Cornerian hero is a liability and past his prime."

As Panther passed by Fox, he stopped, his whiskers shivering for one final quip. But his eyes darted to the doctor's calm surveillance. Her presence flowed over the lab with a palpable surge, often hesitant with restraint until summoned to shield another. He shook his head, clicking his fangs together as if daring to spit at the pilot's feet and walked out. Fox sniffed a splash of sweet aroma left in Panther's wake. A singular, foreign element was incongruent to the persisting fumes of his cologne's masculine citrus and ginger acidic tones.

Were you expecting z-sweet? Fear and z-terror are more so - rather delectable to my delight. The Quartermaster's exchange repeated in his mind again. Fox gulped. No, it couldn't be. Was Panther actually… worried?

"Charming, isn't he?" She said, walking back to fiddle the cabinets.

Yeah, all the charm of a wet, drowning cat. And here I was just warming up to the big cat too. Not going to lie, but Panther is kind of hot when he's angry. Those dark and brooding types sure do a number on me. Quiet, you.

Dragging across the floor by its canvas handles, Dr. Erwood collapsed the overloaded duffel bag at his feet. "H-here. Whew." She paused to catch her breath. "I gathered up all your confiscated belongings. Take a moment to ensure everything is there before you fly back to Corneria. Doubtful the Wolf Pack would let you dock again to retrieve any forgotten valuables."

"Yeah, on account of it being swiped or sold already." Fox kneeled to the floor and unzipped the bag. Nodding with satisfaction, the detail compulsive, organized perfectionist within him approved of its well-organized, tightly-packed inventory.

He took stock of the contents: blaster (smoother grip than the Wolf Pack model); wallet (shred the credit cards and swap for new ones); a written week-old reminder from Peppy to visit his parents (left in my pocket - hope no one saw that); an excessive amount of medkits for burn recovery (donate or put in storage for safekeeping); a bag of fruit-flavored, assorted sour gummies (sorry you got shot at, have some sugar); and his phone (don't look at the notifications - don't look at the notifications - over a thousand!? Shit).

Fox's heart dropped with relief at the sight of folded red, green and white colors that peeked from a stack of folded clothing. The iconic Star Fox uniform - washed, refreshed, and ready for wear - was now arguably in better condition than when it first arrived. A spritz of that clean cotton fragrance and steamed, heated comfort from the dryer. He smoothed the garment with a free hand, grazing against the collar's knots of fresh stitches. Holes once begging for a thread by the lupine's shredding claws, now on the mend. And tucked in a small pocket was his red scarf, reunited with him once more. Resisting the urge to nuzzle the fabric upon his face, he instead wrapped his old friend around his neck, who, in return, embraced him once more. Just as it should.

"Thanks for gathering all of my stuff, Dr. Erwood. I probably should get changed as well. It would save me the trouble of a sore throat justifying all the Wolf Pack leather. The path of least resistance and explanations is always the best one for me." Fox placed his uniform back down, bending his neck along with it. "Yeah, explanations. Boy, am I going to have to do a lot of those. At least a thousand of them, according to my messages."

"Annoying, I bet, but I'm sure that beats staying here." Erwood blinked after an extended pause, expecting a response. "You do intend on leaving, correct?"

"Oh! Yeah. Definitely," he mewed out in a whimper.

Fox turned to stare at the fungal mass of flesh stirring in the cylinder. It shed a layer of scabrous tissue, emitting white bacterial spores thick like germinating dandelion seeds. A low electrical humming tickled his ears from the tank, shifting his chattering teeth on edge, the vibration burying into his gums.

"Doctor, I couldn't help but overhear a minor detail," Fox toyed at the bag's zipper caught at a seam. "Was Cliff attempting to help you escape when he came to the clinic?"

Unphased, Erwood's eyes glazed to a half-lid, wholly prepared to answer the inevitable question - the real reason she requested the Star Wolf member to exit the room. She glanced toward the Lab's sole exit's closed door, confirming against another scenario of her entire conversation being eavesdropped upon as before.

"It was on his list of objectives, yes."

"You're a Venomian, aren't you?" Fox said, half to himself. Epiphany became cognizant as it left his lips.

"I was affiliated with Venom during the war. I cannot deny that." A single, isolated white feather ruffled off her head. Like a cranking rusted bar, it settled down in erratic slants. "Does that concern you? If so, please take my word that no experiments were done to your body, no appended tracking or explosive devices whirring away inside of you. When I practiced my medicine on you - twice, I might add - it was done with the best of intentions."

The thought of an aberrant mechanical gadget fused with his beating flesh made Fox's stomach drop. Dr. Erwood was a scholar and medical practitioner - a passion solely to research, scrutinize and speculate. To soothe the wounded and administer care, there was no feasible way she would ever consider such a malicious act. Though past behavior was an effective indicator for future behavior, a Venomian scientist could run a gambit of potential atrocities. If only doctors would cease utilizing the word practice when it came to medical treatments - the verbiage offering no reassurance.

"There was no concern. I just wanted to know who I was dealing with."

"I thought you already knew." She frowned. "I assumed wrong."

The pilot's ears bent from witnessing the callous disappointment, and he then sputtered: "I'm sorry, Dr. Erwood. If I had known Cliff was trying to bail you out of here, I would have tried to assist in some way."

The hero's apologies slid off her like dripping oil. Cold regard frosted over her glasses, as if the act was appreciated but doubting its authenticity. Her following words felt rehearsed - delicate and inoffensive.

"Cliff was a double agent. Bailing me out was secondary to his main task of infiltrating Sargasso's ranks and relaying intel back to Venom. Even if my rescue had been a priority, it wouldn't have mattered - I'm a high-profile, essential target - and he lacked the skills necessary to rescue me. Far too unstable and callow." She pulled back the sleeve of her white coat, revealing a bracelet trapped on her wrist and rigged with a flashing alarm. "Soon as I step outside the clinic, the entirety of Sargasso will be placed under lockdown, putting any chance of escape into jeopardy. The best way of securing his own escape was to leave me behind."

Let me get this straight: Dr. Erwood steps one foot out the door, and the entire security system goes haywire? Is the attrition rate for doctors on Sargasso so high that Star Wolf has resorted to such extreme methods to retain one person? No, it was more than that. She wasn't just a doctor but a geneticist, an expert in gene therapy. This unknown research project Leon mentioned the other day, the knowledge she possessed can bring it to fruition. An insight into something only she could do - and no one else.

But what could this research even be? She was Venomian. It could be any number of horrors: take your pick. Most likely, an unconventional weapon like biological warfare. Developing an infectious agent to be unleashed in a widespread pandemic or bacteria strain. Alternatively, synthesizing a countermeasure to a weapon already being developed on Venom. A way for Sargasso to combat a method of bioterrorism before it spreads.

If that's even the case. I wouldn't count out all the possibilities too soon.

"Doctor, why didn't you tell me this sooner? Did you not feel like you could trust me?"

Erwood shook her head. "Not a matter of trust, just a lack of relevance. I take no pleasure in expounding upon the terms of my imprisonment. Besides, your history with Venom hasn't been the most cordial. If anything, I needed you to be the one to trust me."

"I suppose it's too much to ask for Corneria, Venom, and Sargasso to all live in harmony, huh? Just know that my issues were with Andross, and not of his people. Despite what I'm wearing, I have no affiliation or love for Sargasso. Both Star Wolf and Venom are still my enemies. And quite frankly, I don't see that changing for the better anytime soon."

"Perhaps not. However, Venom and its people do not wholly reflect on what Andross made of it. Not all wish to make the entire Lylat galaxy their enemy. There are still those who seek peace, wishing only to be seen as potential collaborators, to be accepted by the people that have denied them throughout the millenniums."

A sudden chill brushed upon Fox's bare shoulder. He then flung his scarf to smother the cold. "Did you know… know him? Andross, I mean."

The raven winced. Her hands fell to her sides. "He was a research colleague of mine. I was empathetic to his vision - just not his methods. He was idealistic to a fault, brilliant in all subjects, and armed with pompous arrogance that was so determined to change the galaxy for the better. Ending the cycle of governmental oppression was his goal, until he fell to madness - overtaken by the same lust for dominating as what he once sought to dismantle. Ultimately, his fall saved the little integrity he had left. So for that, I should be thanking you." Her tail feathers twitched underneath her white physician's coat - whether from adulation or spite, Fox was unsure.

"What sent him over the edge?" The hero's burnt scar tissue flashed in pain, like a premonition - a warning.

She pressed a finger to her temple, musing. "Not one thing alone, that I am sure of. Mania is often a slow and insidious disease; perhaps I was unaware of the signs. Besides, who can say what single concept could radically change a person? To go against their beliefs, systematically breaking their diehard traditions and faith? But I do know that necessity drives people to insanity. Hunger turns even honest men into thieves."

I always just pictured Andross as just so misanthropic and full of contempt. Hard to believe he once sought to uplift the people of Venom. I try hard not to think of him. Painstakingly hard.

"But now is not the time for this discussion. Too many wandering ears and enemies abound." She sighed, not of exasperation but from subtle exhilaration. "Return home, Fox McCloud. Recuperate before you take on another contract. You're not fit to be in combat. Not for a while. If you were thinking of worrying for me - do not. My imprisonment in Sargasso is not wholly unjust in nature. I have committed many crimes in my quest to restore Venom's population to glory. No amount of atonement will ever erase that."

Swaying upon her feet, she lifted her head to reach for the fluorescent sun, infinite in all its glory. Dull ashen feathers unfurled to restore back into milky white, yearning to sunbathe in an outpouring of heavenly rays from the ceiling. She offered a steadfast smile desolate of joy, erasing any remnants of transient despair.

"This room. This clinic and its laboratory. This prison is my penance. One I will see through until the end."

---

The MidSector hangar bay clamored in the chaos of lockdown. Winding lines of workers snaked around every docked vessel, arguing through chatter and the shoving of hands, silenced only by the roar of overhead speakers that directed traffic with bursts of threats and repeated warnings of the Venomian escapee. Dozens turned their head to inspect the young man in uniform, their attention riveted like scavengers encircling a wounded prey, anticipating the hero's succumbing to his wounds to dive in then tear flesh. With his duffel bag in hand, Fox veered around armed Wolf Pack soldiers onboarding another cruiser to bolster the perimeter of Sargasso's defense. He stopped in his tracks once more, narrowly avoiding being struck by a runaway equipment cart loaded with a generator as a hapless worker ran after to catch it.

The rust-colored bay doors to a private docking station rolled open before Fox. The first location of his arrival to Sargasso - and consequently, his final stop in the pirate stronghold. At last, showcased at the centerpiece of the bay, Fox's legendary Arwing starfighter patiently awaited his arrival. Starlight polished its windshield, with wings nearly yearning for take-off. Simplistic in design but stalwart in its manufacturing with hypersonic acceleration, advanced propulsion systems and state-of-the-art expertise for combat deployment. But the starfighter was more than just an engine and a weapon; she was the hero's partner and valiant steed - a piece of himself, a piece of home.

A blast of recycled air spiraled around him, carrying oil exhaust and dust from a ventilator. The wind was coupled with a mournful melody, a figment of song traveling the wind like a hitchhiker bumming a ride. A prominent figure stood nearby the Arwing, performing the very exact tune from the boiler room - the stage of the first duel. That majestic whistling upon a folded, rough tongue. Whimsical in how the song ranged by pitch, a high piccolo to the raspy bass of clarinet, every note evaporating as it lifted. Fox's soul recognized its sound before the mind, cherishing that rumbling baritone that galvanized every note with a power - rich like a fulsome harvest - and deadly in its beauty.

Wait. Beauty? For Wolf O'Donnell? No, such a term was a misnomer, lost upon the puzzle of contradictions. A warrior's dirge, sung to summon a storm as his listeners soared, only for the pirate's cunning to take aim and blast them out of the sky.

Speak of the devil and he doth appear.

Spiked chains jangling and fang tips flashing, the only thing missing was the horns. Wolf hunkered over the Arwing whistling away, his large hands stroking its cold metal frame as a ranch hand nurtured newborn livestock. The pirate might as well have been strapped in a farmer's denim overalls, messy strands of hay straw jutting out his thick, untamed mane - the rugged scoundrel at least had the accent for it. But the pirate's eye was alight with a blend of appreciation and solemn reverence, almost possessive, for the timely reunion of an old enemy. It was compelling to witness his foe enwreathed with pride and not embittered in deviance.

The song broke with a flat chirr - off-key. Wolf's sharp ears flicked back as if repulsed by touch, conscientious of another's presence. He then stood upright, stocky build leaning to the side, raking his claws to tame his ghost-white mohawk wavering by the hangar's cooling fans. Fox imagined if the lupine's thick strands of fur would be satin smooth or shaggy rough like the coarse grey-tips that fringed his muzzle.

"Don't worry. Didn't tamper with your baby or nothin'. You can wipe that dumb, suspicious look off your face."

Fox sputtered, scrambling off the caught fascination, hoping to play it off cool. "Uh-huh. Sure."

Note to self. When I get back, have Slippy sweep the Arwing for tracking bugs. Fox gulped, clutching at his throat. Yeah. When I get back…

"McCloud, if I wanted to hijack it, I'd have taken this baby on a sweet joyride by now. Only admirin' her masterwork craftsmanship, is all." Wolf turned back to the Arwing, his smile returning. "Just been a dog's age since I've seen an Arwing this close. I can tell she's been through a few upgrades. What's the armor plating on this model's iteration?"

"Why? So you can steal our specifications again and modify your Wolfen the same way? They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but outright theft is just despicable."

"Pssh. Just cause she got wings don't make her an angel." The pirate knocked on the hull, inspecting the density with a hard knuckle. "You can either tell me now, or I can tap into the information broker network and find out later. Your call."

What an asshole. Fox sighed. Wolf didn't play in idle threats. "According to Slippy, it's a reinforced palladium armor attachment over the ship's superstructure. Unfortunately, the tech's prints are held in Space Dynamics' vaults. I couldn't tell you more even if I actually wanted to."

"A fancy Space Dynamics design, huh?" Wickedness dripped off Wolf's words, eliciting a shiver across Fox's nape. "If you might recall five years ago, I nicked you a couple of times from our encounter in Fichina. That wasn't just the daggers of icy wind puncturing your ship. I hope you pay that toad well enough. Might have gotten you good if it wasn't for those top-notch shields ballistics."

Fox blinked off the memory of an eternal tundra of a planet, concealing all life and vegetation underneath its absolute zero of deathly white. "You still think about that?"

The pirate patted down the Arwing in a one-two farewell cadence. "It might have replayed in my mind a few times, yeah. But ain't no good wastin' time in sentimentality."

"Didn't you have an important meeting or something, Wolf? Couldn't resist seeing me off?"

Wolf scoffed. "Nah - I had a meeting. Cut it short. Didn't feel right with ya leavin' without jerkin' a knot in your tail first." Wolf grabbed a set of keys from his chained pocket. "And to personally give you this," The winged quadrupedal copper Star Fox logo shined back at the hero. "Here. Take it with my apologies. She's all yours."

The good word now put to the deed, as the warden had freed Fox from his locked cell. He should have already scaled up the wings and mounted the cockpit, suited and buckled up in the plane's seat. G-Diffusion system charged and goaded into hyperdrive, the Arwing's thrusters full throttling her way back to Corneria. But his feet remained grounded on the floor, entrapped yet free of any shackles or chains. Released back to the colossal workload itinerary and week-long excursions avoiding the next contract. Back to the sleepless nights reading every celebrity gossip blog, message board forums, and headlining newscast.

Hiding away, secluded from the world, as the seconds turned to minutes to hours to days to weeks to months to-

"You got what you wanted. So what the hell are you mopin' around for all wishy-washy-like?" Wolf lifted a brow - perplexed. "You look like you've just traded the devil for the witch."

The pirate had fired the question like a bow's strained release of a pulled back arrow: and fired - piercing its marked target bullseye clean in the heart. A full head-on collision broke down the barricades of a clutched secret, now stripped to the bare bone and nowhere else to hide. Fox's anxiety jumped like he swallowed a live flea - it was now or never.

With hesitation, Fox pocketed his keys. "Wolf, you know enough about my history to understand what I'm about to tell you."

"Hmph." Suspicion and inquisitiveness paved out Wolf's full attention. "I reckon I might."

"If I do, just promise you won't judge me too harshly for it, ok?"

"Can't possibly do more than what I already have."

Good enough. Fox dropped his bag, motioning for Wolf to follow him towards the nearest hangar window. The pilot gazed out into the bulwark of the asteroid field, seeking to thank his destined, lucky stars - yet there were none - all swallowed by the void and orbiting meteorite.

But shining at the corner of his eye was the reflection of Wolf towering over beside him, no grunts of disapproval or rolling of the eye. Just the steely visage studying him, paired with a half-hearted yet earnest signal of a nod.

Sargasso had an oddity of dredging up the ruminations of the past. The universe constructed settings where men couldn't escape their fears: prison, the battlefield, even an obsidian citadel drifting the verge of Lylat's tenebrous boundaries. Every floor, every plane or dimension was adorned in mirrors, casting back unresolved horrors discarded downstream to the flow of time. But here, the mind crawled to a halt as time marched forward, only to rediscover that the forgotten ill memories had never died - just stagnated and corrupted the waters trodden upon. And when at the bottom of the barrel, conceding to mind's fragility and its limitations, Fox was unashamed to reach the nearest life preserver - even if it took the form of a mortal enemy.

"Wolf. I've been avoiding a revelation - one that I've known for some time now." Indecisiveness tethered to Fox's tongue. "Ugh, how do I put this? Do you know that special, extraordinary quality we possess? That X-factor, mojo, the je ne sais quoi or whatever you want to call it. The special trait that allows us to be a leader, to fight, to stand out from the crowd and to be… brave." The sorrow in Fox's plea cut each word shorter than the last. "It's gone. I've lost something precious to me, and I have no clue how to get it back."

He turned to take a moment to breathe and exhale. To find that rhythm of air pulsing in his lungs, to bury dejection in front of his foe. Like a splash of cool water, he patted his face to enkindle back his courage.

"Let's face facts. I cracked during our duel, failed to shoot a gun in self-defense - which I never had a problem with doing before - and blabbered about being riddled with terrible anxiety." Moisture bubbled underneath his eyelids. "Sargasso put the past couple of years into perspective of how much I've been avoiding my problems. Like, come on, you know things are bad when even your mortal enemy is pulling you into the sidelines like a coach giving a pep talk. The warning signs couldn't be any more transparent."

Nagging apprehensive thoughts occupied Fox's mind, unable to be flushed away.

If I go back to the endless cycle of contracts and criticism, I feel like I'm just going to get stuck in the rut as I did before. It's just that I've been let down. I've been disappointed by others. Trusted the wrong people to be taken advantage of, left vulnerable and betrayed. I can't afford to face the ridicule of public embarrassment again plastered over the tabloids - headlines of never measuring up to my dad over another decision that will haunt me forever.

The citizens of Corneria. So self-righteous with their smears, slurs and jabbing pitchforks. They could never imagine a life outside of their bubbles, how impossible it was to conform to the heroic identity they branded to the Star Fox heir. No, their heads were buried in the sand, a provincial comprehension that fails to exceed beyond the physical, that there was a world beyond what one can perceive by sight or touch alone. Their pride too thick to admit ignorance, egos oppressive and monstrous in mass - little to no room for empathy to emerge.

What I wouldn't give to one day blend in, merge with the crowd, and become one of them. But society has no place for heroes like me - washed-up ones especially. Perhaps it's easier this way to retreat like a hermit. They don't need to suffer my incompetence, and I no longer suffer their intolerance. A mutual symbiotic agreement for all parties involved - and that works for me.

Tch. Tch. Wolf played with his lighter's spark wheel. "Fox. It's time to fess up 'bout what you refused to say before at the Observatory and why you threw the match against me. You said ya didn't know, but we both know that's a lie. So this time, don't piss on my leg and tell me it's rainin'. Be straight up with me."

"Uh, um, ah." Fox kicked at the ground. "Do I have to do it?"

Tch. Tch. A flame sprung from the gold-plated hood. "Yep. I'm afraid so. Just do it and be done with it."

"We agreed that if I lost the duel, I would disband Star Fox, right? For about two years now, I've been entertaining the idea of stepping down . I almost flat out quit Star Fox before." Capricious fingers skidded down his arms to reassure - unsuccessfully. "So when the opportunity presented itself with our duel, I rationalized that perhaps losing to you would not have been so bad."

The regret was near-instantaneous. Fox clasped his mouth shut with both hands as if the gesture would somehow choke down and swallow back his words, reversing time itself. He braced for the storm. The hubris and the untrammeled rage. The indignant snarls simmering with another jibe, flying with a myriad of barbs that Fox might as well have been a skinny pin-cushion. Agonizing seconds pass, awaiting a reaction.

It did not come.

Click—the lighter extinguished with a single twist of smoke. The pirate was stern with his jaw clenched back, imprisoning his oft-waggling silver tongue. Eye narrowed, features barren of anger, yet brimming with plaintive curiosity. He ingested the confession, inch by inch, piece by piece. Wolf hummed, almost appeased - and then, imposing and arresting - he smirked.

"Ah. That just dilled my pickle. I was afraid of that bein' the case. I can't say I didn't expect it." The pirate gulped back a hard swallow, a tangible prediction now realized, masking his genuine emotional reaction deep within his gut. "So when you get out of here, you're just going to give up? Pack it in? Live the civilian life?"

Fox buried his face in his hands, muffling to rub his eyes: "I don't even know anymore."

"What does your intuition tell you, Fox?"

Go with our gut until logic and experience say otherwise. Despite all my missteps these past few years, that's what's worked for me before. But my experiences have contradicted that philosophy. I thought I was following my intuition when I pushed through the academy, worked myself to the bone, and when I bled for my people - only to get beat down again and again. But I was wrong this whole time. My intuition has led me nowhere. Being trapped in Sargasso and almost getting killed earlier is a perfect example of that.

But if it's not our intuition that has kept us alive - then what has?

"It tells me nothing. I didn't even overthink what I was going to do after. All I thought about was trying to get out while I could. I'm not concerned with being rich, famous, or being better than anyone else. I want to get back to that place where I can function again and be… normal." Fox inclined his head, pacing back and forth. "I don't know how to tell them, Wolf. How to tell my friends and the people that need me that I can't do this anymore."

"Hold your horses and settle down a bit, boy." As Fox turned away, Wolf caught upon the hero's sleeve - gripping with determination. "I'd be lying if I said everythin' would work out - that it'll all come out in the wash. But we both know that's a crock of shit. Time doesn't heal all wounds. It's what you do with it that matters."

Fox sniffled back a rising tear. He responded, wafer-thin and reedy: "It doesn't heal shit. It really does not."

The pirate's single eye twitched from side to side like an old-fashioned, defunct typewriter as if Fox's spirit were an open book. He scanned for the cues, the questions to press, what levers to pull, all to get the answers he sought to solve his foe's dilemma. For the face value of the superficial could never sustain the pirate king - only the preeminent secrets worthy of his appraisal are rarely found upon the surface - unless its host relented or was coerced enough to relinquish it through intimidation or force.

"So you're that messed up, huh? Ok. I'll bite. Hear me out, will ya?" Wolf cupped his strong chin in his hand. "Part of your predicament is my fault; I acknowledge that. Since I left the clinic, I've been thinkin' of a plan, made some calls with the Inner Circle and laid out some arrangements."

He dug deeper in his chained pocket and handed back the Wolf Pack insignia for a second time. "If you need to sit a spell to figure things out, to get your head swiveled back on straight, I'll let you stay in Sargasso. But this time, not as a prisoner, but rather as my guest."

Fox blundered. Starry-eyed shock reflected off the silver insignia's casing. "… Huh? Come again?"

"You were right earlier. I ain't no therapist, but I've dealt with just about every hardship life can throw at ya. I'm a warrior - just like yourself - who's lived through countless battles and survived every single one of them. So I'm offerin' you my counsel and guidance as my way of patchin' things up between us. I'll mentor you, train your mind and body into shape, teach you all the lessons that have earned me my position as lord of Sargasso." Wolf rocked back on his boot heels, belt loops hooked by thumbs, near-mocking laughter at his foe's surprise. "So say hello to your new personal advisor, Mr. McCloud."

Shaking and reeling from the whiplash, Fox took back the insignia from Wolf's hands. Its shining silver matched the distressed copper Star Fox symbol. Was this fantasy borne out of imagination, crafted by delusional wonder? No, this was reality.

"Your Arwing will have free access to our hangar bay. You can leave at any time, head back home, or come and go as you please. Sargasso no longer has walls to you. Hell, I'll even haul you up with a fancy room in the UpperSector. Rent waived, I might add, but I'll be keepin' a tab on your utilities. No one eats for free here."

"You're kidding me. This has to be a joke." A tentative smile grew to a half-spread, tunneling deeper into Fox's cheeks, his mouth capturing his flailing tongue to resume the conversation. "Y-you would never make such an offer to help me, after all the contention and friction I've caused."

"Heh. Ain't no joke. I'm as serious as Leon is crazy! I won't give up until I figure out what goes in that fluffy noggin of yours, especially when in a proper fit headspace again."

Is this happening? First, Wolf and I were enemies, and now there's the truce. Then he saves us, offers a room in Sargasso like its bed and breakfast, and wants to counsel me? What the flipping, flying fuck is going on? I think we've completely lost it into straitjacket territory, Fox.

…

Hey, other parts of the brain? Did you catch any of that? Not the appropriate time to shut out the world like you usually do. Sorry. I was considering the offer. A place away from home, huh? Not exactly the safest vacation spot in Lylat because of my injuries, but if Wolf is genuine about making amends, I can't say I'm not intrigued.

"The classic keep-your-friends-close-and-your-enemies-closer bit, huh? Wolf O'Donnell: the most notorious criminal to fly the Lylat galaxy and now life coach? And me, the kidnapped prince, to now become a guest of Sargasso? This event has been the craziest few days of my entire life." The pilot giggled with an unbecoming snort. "-and that's saying something coming from me." Brittle laughter creaked out his lopsided grin, hoping the pirate would overlook his other embarrassing quirk. Somehow it didn't phase Wolf.

"That's correctomundo." Wolf clucked. "Though I wouldn't call you no prince. More a dressed-up, blue-blooded dandy boy."

Wolf bumped a single knuckle - foregoing the claw - to the intact, uninjured section of the younger man's chest. Those thick roped eyebrows unbounded of tension and accessible to jest. Smudged underneath the leather eyepatch, his forgotten, buried eye winked (more fitting to say scrunched) with an intense absurdity that lifted his cheeks and fang as if to say: See, I remembered. Didn't mean ya no harm - this time.

Fox's body heat sweltered as he bit back a grin. It was almost a delight to observe such a ludicrous gesture off his foe's lordly features. Yielding to the joviality, he prodded at Wolf's chest, poking the exact spot still singing from the pirate's touch above his own heart - though Fox's touch may have lasted a tad second longer.

His fingerprints indulged while coated in the physical sensation of his nemesis' sculpted texture. The lupine was built with a foundation of solid brawn, but buoyant softness delineated the muscle's surface—less a body and more a mountain of muscle, frosted over in scarred flesh and rugged silver-grey fur. Powerful arms gripped upon leather sleeves, and his dark tank top tugged tight upon the abdominal grooves of his torso. To simply touch wasn't enough to quench the senses.

"I still don't know you very well, Wolf, but I get the sense that you're not a person to mindlessly trifle your time without some kind of end goal or payout." Fox shook the residual tingle off his paws. "What's the real reason you're making this offer to help me after all the barking dog fights and duels? Be honest with me."

Wolf squared his body to lean in closer, wetting his muzzle with a wet lap of a lolled tongue, almost daring the hero to finish what he started. "Welp, there's a sayin' that roams 'round these parts. All who travel to Sargasso have one thing to trade-"

"-for each thing they try to hide. I remember that now from the Lows." Fox folded his arms together. The soreness of his injuries was now dimed by his fascination. "So what exactly do I have to trade you?"

"Smart kid. If I were to depart my profane pirate wisdom your way, help you clear up some of the shit you're dealin' with - then who knows? When you're in top shape and back to your old self, I want a rematch." Wolf waggled a raised claw. "Just on friendlier terms this time. No high stakes and no deathmatches. Just a good ol' fashioned spar between warriors."

A Dr. Lachman the pirate was not. But Wolf was a soldier who fought just like Fox did. No holds barred, no mercy quartered, full out in combat. Every spoken word was another crack in the ice, a break of insight into the pirate's honesty, unburdened at last by the weight of vengeful regrets. Though a hissing of doubt crept into Fox's ears, questioning the intent. The offer sold like a fraudulent investment deal from a salesman peddling only in schemes, almost too good to be true.

"Don't seem convinced, Fox? You're wise not to be. I suppose there is one other reason." Wolf bent his neck around to inspect the perimeter within earshot. Dipping his chin, a gruffness rasped low off his voice. "Maybe I feel guilty about everythin' that's happened, alright? Because I-"

Wolf closed his eye. A somberness bled through his tone, an unsettling parallel to the intimidating bulk of his figure. "Every time I look at you, I can't escape it. The embodiment of my failures. The one man I could never conquer. That self-righteous sense of justice that I so fuckin' hate behind those clenched fists." He blinked open. The pair's gazes were fusing as the icy air poured over the hero, clutching at his throat. "And when I stare into those big, bonny green eyes of yours, all lost and miserable like a pathetic child - I'm reminded of somethin' that I forgot."

The lupine bent down low, the muscles tense in his broad neck. He lifted Fox's chin with a single claw. Its foreboding edge nestled gently into the hero's chin. "You remind me of myself." Fox shuddered with a shameless gasp. His rival's stark confession was so raw and dreadful - lewd even - like a rough tongue gliding down his neck. "And I hate that."

"If I had someone willin' to sit me down and pull me back up, things could have played out differently. Maybe I didn't need to punish myself by carryin' all of these demons I got crawlin' on my back. Maybe-" Wolf growled, admonishing himself to leak a mere passing insight to the unvarnished truth. "But that's my offer, Fox. Take it or leave it. You have an opportunity to go back home, kid. Whatever you wish to do now is on you."

Wolf O'Donnell was a shotgun dreamer. A scattershot of shrapnel barreling through every hurdle or barricade. No time wasted questioning duty or morality, all hesitation dissolved by the clarity of absolute assurance, only infatuated with details of achieving his lofty ambitions. A colossal soul with scarcely ample enough space in his body to accommodate it. A phoenix that had not just arisen from ash but thrived, despite death's folly, the strength of failure ascending him to master his destiny. He was his future.

The shared eye contact just now, so fearless in its audacity and tension, how it demanded such depths of truth in its crosshairs. But when left to bask in his foe's forgiveness with all fabrications stripped away, the pirate had permitted a glimpse of the window into his soul: and in return, allowed Fox to bare his own. Somehow, Fox felt seen for the first time, even as his vulnerability quaked. He was bonded by gratitude that could never be described with words alone. It cultivated the ground like a budding garden, immeasurable and supportive, paving for the rivers of relief to swim at his bone-weary feet.

Find that silver lining in the clouds, my son. Fox could hear it: the creak and call of another door opening before him. The dive into cold waters he so desperately yearned for so many years. A second chance to park upon a pit stop along the road to a cleansed and refreshed mind, able to reflect with a restored perspective focused on the future.

Corneria was a devil that he knew, but Sargasso was one he still didn't quite grasp. To remain meant further danger, the path before him as foreboding as when he first arrived in shackles. The pirate stronghold was akin to an untrained, caged beast offering false loyalty. As soon as you stopped feeding it - to give in to its demands - it would turn on its master if given a chance. Better call the dealer, roll the dice, and always bet on red. If nothing else, favorite colors were immune to change, even if everything else would.

If Fox did agree to a prolonged stay, others could surely benefit from his assistance. His fellow cellmates at the Purgatory Ward, Sobol and Red - locked in stasis for their supposed crimes. The displaced Zaris family that ran their food stall in the Lows, saving every credit in their endeavor to flee to Corneria. The sage-like Quartermaster, now without his assistant, under fire by the Wolf Pack for concealing an implanted Venomian saboteur. And lastly, Dr. Erwood herself, who cared for and treated his wounds despite her affiliation to Venom.

Fox couldn't leave with unflagging guilt plaguing his conscience - not without helping those in need. If given a chance, and a bit of considerable delegation, maybe he could parlay with Wolf to accommodate or even free his new acquaintances as well.

If you can't beat the Wolf Pack, join them. Is that what I'm doing now? As a guest, remember? Besides, with Wolf as a mentor, his first lesson would be if someone does beat you, hire someone else to beat them instead. Physically.

"Ok, Wolf. If I truly will be just a guest and you're willing to make things right as you claim, then maybe I'll stick around. At least for a little bit longer." Fox pinned the Wolf Pack Insignia upon his collar, pierced and secured in the Star Fox white. He outlined a fingertip down the moon-shaped cut pattern of the Wolf Pack design and up the trimming spear head's peak - ouch. The tip was shockingly quite sharp. "You owe me big time, though. As soon as things get too weird, dangerous, or Panther starts speaking in tongues - I'm out of here."

"Is that right? You'll stay?" The cast-iron, rigid bar of Wolf's shoulders unwinded and loosened just a fraction of an inch. A hint of a broad, dominant smile broke through the lupine's stony-faced exterior. "Well, I'll be damned. Didn't think you would take me up on my offer."

The endearment rolled through Wolf like thunder - a heavyweight punch behind a peal of smoky laughter. The lupine flashed a complete set of fangs like a shark with a mouth full of minnows, pulling down thick roped eyebrows as those prominent cheekbones pinched sharp. If Fox didn't know any better, Wolf appeared somewhat pleased. As if his rival stunned even himself by a delight superior to any rolled tobacco or bottled spirit. Everyone smiles in the same language, but satisfaction could never be drawn this menacingly.

"But first, Fox, I need you to commit to me. An understandin' to what I will be teachin' ya." The air of the room shifted to an ominous allure. Wolf offered his hand out to bind the unwritten contract. "Strength is not limitless. It must come from somewhere or someone. To sacrifice is synonymous with becomin' strong. So you must find the strength from anywhere you can, pull at it and hold it close to you."

The endless hunger in Wolf's gaze blazed. His voice dropped, but the fiery passion burned brighter. "Are you willin' to listen to me and find your true self? To understand what power truly is? Are you ready to be strong, Fox?"

I'll show you, Wolf. I'll prove to you I'm a worthy foe - and to everyone else who doubted my capabilities.

One-eyed bastard. Hayseed layabout. Apple-knocking, rum licking, good-for-nothing bumpkin. Well, a more handsome, tolerable bumpkin now.

Fox scrunched his face, bracing himself for the launch of the pirate's mighty grip. The hero then mouthed a silent prayer to land safely back - if gravity is willing and merciful. His tentative, shaking paw reached out, aiming to grasp the safety of Wolf's palm of rough curves, nestled by clawed fingers. Fox was then yanked forward, seized by that pirate's pumice stone–coarse grip that squeezed and shaked his hand tight like a stress ball.

"When do we begin then, o' wise and evil one?" Their hands remained interlocked. Fox's thumb slipped into a groove over Wolf's coarse knuckle, brushing over the protruding oval-shaped bone.

A dark glimmer faded in Wolf's eye. "We already have, my rival."

End of Act One

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Next Chapter: The Meek and The Maverick