"Who's gonna tell you when it's too late?
Who's gonna tell you things aren't so great?
You can't go on thinking that nothing's wrong.
Who's gonna drive you home, tonight?"
Oddment
Krystal stared off into the narrowing horizon of figs, ferns, pine trees and a golden setting sun. She extracted a cigarette from her pack, perched it between her lips and lit it. Its tip birth a smoldering cherry, rich smoke traveling down her throat and permeating her lungs. The nicotine buzz hit, much like it had before, and she was a few notches calmer. After a moment of holding it in, Krystal snapped the metal hinges of her lighter shut, exhaled and nestled the cig between her fingers. She must have looked like an addict; a strung-out, matted, blue female fox with wide eyes and a gaunt expression of blankness.
Krystal took another drag, leaning back into the rubberized bench, the coating doing nothing to abate the mild chill scaling from tailbone to spine. She wondered about Fox, the icy chill replaced by a pain her abdomen. What was he doing now? It'd been two months, two long months since they'd parted ways. It had left her numb. Separating was only a topping, though, an additional straw that was too heavy.
And yet here you are, picking up smoking.
Krystal didn't regret her new habit. It helped. She told herself that repeatedly and, to some degree, it was true. What had come of the others? She didn't know. There was loose contact with Falco, a minuscule, modest amount that resembled the same decay her and Fox had experienced. Krystal thought about her apartment and frowned. Her cash was ephemeral, and the deal struck between her and the landlord seemed tenuous at best. She was equally distressed about both of these problems, but the foundation of anxiety came from Fox. Why, why did he leave her? What had she done besides hurt?
Everyone has breakdowns! Why can't I have breakdowns? I'm someone without him!
Krystal took a deep breath, leaned back, and indulged in the cigarette. Two words repeated themselves in her mind: not here. She felt the cool breeze drift over her, the temperate air breezing over her shift, kissing the cleavage of her breasts. "Can you put that out?"
Krystal slowly opened her eyes, locking gazes with a male bear. "Sorry?"
"The cigarette," he pointed, "kids around here."
Krystal rolled her eyes. "Okay, dad."
"Don't be disrespectful. And don't throw the butts out in the grass. Have a good day," the stranger tipped his hat at her, issuing the hollow platitude with a blank expression.
Get fucked. Krystal groaned, tapping her paw on the asphalt. Her stomach knotted. The nightmares would be back tonight, surely, like they always had been. They mercilessly haunted her, only compounding whatever loneliness she felt. She tapped her foot on the asphalt pathway, waiting for the intrusive bear to mind his own businesses and promptly disappear. After several seconds of him growing increasingly smaller, eventually engulfed by the horizon, she lit up another cigarette. Another sigh escaped her. How long would she do this? It was meandering.
Ahead, some pups played in the grass, laughing while scanning over their phones. She likened that to her experience in Star Fox, which was currently on hiatus (or disbanded for the foreseeable future, if you had asked her). The reasons for the hiatus were still largely unclear, but the massive drop in crime, the unification of the Lylat and new monetary system seemed to play a role. Culture changed. But had she? Would she become another relic, left behind? Krystal groaned, stood, and stretched, turning back. Her craft sat somewhere in the nearby hangar.
The Chrome Dome held a certain air to it, an atmosphere Slippy had deemed perfect for the coming transaction. He was adamant about meeting her, under the cover of an alcohol and nicotine fueled night, to complete the exchange. How deep had he gone for the database of names and matching locations? After sorting through various web crawlers, different caves of the dark web, he'd found what the client requested: a complete database containing current locations for persons of interest. He took a shot of his sour mash whiskey, wiping it away from his lips. Several vixens were dancing by a digital media player a few dozen feet down at the end of the bar, shaking their rears and tails, laughing and sloshing mugs of beer in their feminine paws.
Data, in Slippy's eyes, was analogous to the soul. He likened gathering data to collecting the essence of consciousnesses that didn't exist, at least not in his universe. Perhaps that was grandiose, but Slippy didn't mind giving himself a little sense of importance. He hadn't done any technical work for Star Fox, let alone The Great Fox's many sinuous conduits of fiber optics and silicon, in a considerable amount of time. It was all personal conjecture, anyway. He took another shot of whiskey, the two glasses he ordered devoid of fluid. A slight buzz washed over him, easing his nerves.
The client would be here soon, hopefully. The transaction would reward him a decent amount of credit, enough to purchase a particular CPU he'd been eyeing for the past several months. He didn't have a mortgage or rent – no, his work with Star Fox took care of that. Early retirement was useful, though he still needed extra income for niche, hobby projects and tools to enable his services.
Slippy stretched in his seat, watching two figures make their way to his table. He smirked, watching as the first one, a male feline, sit in front of him. "Strange we met here. I had expected more of you," his voice rolled off his tongue.
"Who are your two friends, Daryl?" Slippy studied the two other males and their bulky, feline stature.
Daryl laughed. "Protection. Do you have it?"
Slippy shook his head, annoyed. "It was to be just the two of us, Daryl."
"I had to be safe," Daryl leaned forward, eyes stern, "unless you think this is a problem."
"We had a deal," Slippy sighed.
Daryl motioned, waving a finger. The two bodyguards brandished pistols. Daryl grinned wide, a look of satisfaction on his face. "I wouldn't make things difficult for your sake."
You aimless fuck.
Slippy stared, then laughed. "Go ahead. You can kill me, if you want, but the consequences would be yours to endure."
Daryl raised a brow. "Consequences?"
"You vapid moron," Slippy chuckled, "do you honestly think I'd come to a meeting like this without some sort of fail safe? My, my Daryl, your stupidity impresses me. But go ahead, shoot me. It'd be a shame if a bunch of data, names and locations leaked."
Daryl stammered. "You know Daryl isn't my real name-"
"I know your real name, Conner. How's Pine Street? Does your wife know about you and the neighbor? I could go on… and on… and on… and tell Marquis and Franz over there to back off."
Daryl's faced was plastered with surprise. "How… how did-"
"I'm a hacker, Daryl. A technician. A good one. And the best part is, you don't know who I am. I've given you false information. The best false information, mind you. Do you understand me? Now, don't make this difficult. I just want payment. You can have your data. But do not threaten me. Ever." Slippy leaned forward.
"Alright Donner," Daryl slid a card across the table, "100,000 credits, all yours. Data, please?"
Slippy took the payment card and replied with a data-pad. "I think we're square."
"Just one thing," Daryl asked, "Donner, since that's obviously not your real name – how did you do it?"
Slippy stood and downed his drink. "Magic. Don't follow me. I have eyes in the back of my head. Maybe even your head. Do not attempt to contact me. Understood?"
Daryl nodded. "Fine."
Slippy felt no sense of pursuit; whoever Daryl's guards were must have clearly understood him. Hell, Daryl must have clearly understood him. He moved through the sliding chrome and glass doors, glancing back. Slippy's apartment was at least 60KM away and he'd taken precautions, such as temporarily jamming any nearby GPS or tracking equipment. He'd trade off his temporary cruiser, board a maglev and swap identification in no time. In his line of work, you had to be paranoid. He was dealing with dark information, secrets best left untold unless the price was right. Daryl's price was right, but he'd have an impossible time contacting Slippy again. He'd made sure of that.
She waited in line like she had so many times before. Krystal eased to the left, letting a nurse pass by. How long would she sit here and wait? The line was extensive today, much more than usually. It wrapped around several lengths of rope and poles. She stepped to the side again, leaning against one of the concrete pillars that held the establishments ceiling in place.
"Next," someone ahead called.
The line nudged forward one body, Krystal following suit. She swished her tail. Today was meds day. Every month, once a month, she went to the government run pharmacy and refilled a prescription for antianxiety pills and other psychiatric medications. Maybe today they'd run out and she'd have to face her personal demons alone, wrapped up in thin bedsheets and cheap pillows in her apartment.
"Next please," the voice called again.
Probably the nurse, Krystal thought. The line moved another body forward again. It was like watching tar drip from an hourglass of pitch. It didn't matter, though. Krystal would be home to her lonely apartment soon enough. There wouldn't be anyone else there except some stuffed animals, a few wartime trinkets, a half-stocked fridge, a nice display for movies, a worn-out sofa she found on the corner of the road and a king size mattress with a fancy bedframe. She wanted a headboard with spots for books, she told Fox.
Fox agreed, bought it and now it sat devoid of his belongings. Because Fox had left. Fox was gone. It was just her, now. She thought about a basket of laundry that hadn't received attention in nearly a week. Krystal had plenty of detergent. The apartment's laundry mat wasn't hard to get too. She'd even wandered to it in her underwear once. Eyes were on her bare fur at all times, a few pervs probably taking stock of her well-padded ass, but she didn't give a fuck.
Laundry was laundry, and laundry had to get done. If anyone tried to grab a handful of her butt, she'd give them an angry fistful of her claws.
Her apartment's cool, dark walls invited her back. There were no monsters in the dark, she told herself, just the creatures living in her head. Mint chocolate chip ice cream sat in the freezer. She salivated. That would definitely be on her 'to do' list for the evening.
And what were her plans tonight? Krystal bit her lip. What am I doing tonight?
"Next."
She approached the pharmacist with a blank face. "Pharanyxol," Krystal said.
"Date of birth and name, please," the pharmacist replied.
She provided the information and waited. In moments, the medication was in her hands. She rolled it back and forth between her paws, the amber-translucent material hiding faint pills inside. For a moment, she felt shame. Maybe grief. Krystal shook the bottle, listening to the clack and rattle. It would be more than enough to get her through another month or so. "Thank you. Next please," the pharmacist said again.
Krystal nodded and turned, leaving the line and medicine peddler in her wake. She swished her tail curiously, its fluff waving in slow strides. A part of her never suspected that she'd be in a situation where head-meds were required.
Yet… it didn't surprise her. Everything had changed. The battles were done, now only memories. Angry memories that chewed at her prefrontal and mind. And of course, Fox. He was gone sighed and ignored the mental turmoil. It was time to get home, slip into some comfortable clothes and tend to back-laundry.
Whether it was in her underwear again or not, she didn't care. She just wanted to feel like a task had been completed – she wanted to feel like her presence effected the world around her, no matter how small. It meant she was real.
I'm real, I'm not a ghost, I'm alive, others see me, right?
She wanted to exist and know it through and through, like the sun is hot and water is wet. Krystal made her back to the cruiser. There were socks and pants to wash and sheets to dry.
He shut the door behind him. The night was young still, waiting to be harvested like a tree bearing heavy, neon-soaked fruit in a midnight grove. Who was he to ignore it? Slippy set his personals on a nearby table and tread further into the darkened room. He glanced around. After a few steps, he was at a door. A particular door. It led to his lair, to his retreat.
He opened it, cracking his neck.
After the clandestine operation of exchanging hacked information with Daryl, he needed the time to wind down. Then again, he did the same routines every night. It was ritual; Slippy spent his time scouring deep into the unknowns of a system-wide internet. There were secrets to be discovered. Some people paid a lot for these secrets.
Like Daryl did.
Daryl was no one new, not in the grand scheme of the universe. Characters such as him came along daily, seeking unknowable answers and half-truths peppered by concealed clues and whatever. The information he'd handed off to him was redundant, useless, and time-wasting. Not for Slippy, per say, but almost certainly for Daryl. He was after records of some company, one that collapsed into dissolve years ago.
Maybe it was some grudge. Slippy didn't know. This was his life, not Daryl's. If things were different, he could have been the one arresting the operation. But they weren't. It wasn't necessarily a crime, but it wasn't explicitly legal to do. And it doesn't matter. That's what Slippy told himself: it didn't matter and probably wouldn't.
He didn't have anything else to do, anyway. Not since Star Fox disbanded and things "resolved" through Lylat. That didn't mean crime had vanished. Rather, the tax incentive and new system of government and law enforcement handled things differently. And Fox… well, McCloud had gone off the deep end. The vulpine had become a shell of his former self.
But not Slippy. Slippy was in his prime. With all the free time to search, his life was filled with intrigue.
He shut the door behind him, flicking a mechanical switch. Dim lights powered up, filling the room with a haze of near-dark. He never liked too much light. It obscured his view over the monitors. That was never a good thing.
Slippy made his way to the swivel chair. He bought it however-long-ago from a nearby flea market before it went out of business. Its stained black fabric was comfortable, albeit unbecoming to most. It suited the lair of laptops, towers, screens, banks, and wires better than he had expected.
He sat on the chair, the network of monitors and high-end computers coming to life. Several monitors flickered to life, dotted with terminals and codes. Slippy smiled. He could hear the fans quietly revving around him, the whirs of multiple CPUs and several other digitized components. Part of him wanted to share it with someone, but most of him didn't.
He turned on some sort of music from a saved playlist. A liquid and smooth audio filled the room. Not too loud, though. He couldn't draw any unwarranted (or unwanted) attention to the questionable domain hidden away from Lylat. The first few notes of Mozart's Requiem, K. began to play. Slippy exhaled, savoring every note.
A minifridge set next to the desk, filled with wines and other alcoholic spirits. Slippy didn't know how much he'd spent on wine exactly, but it was a fair amount. There was whiskey, rum, and other rare things found in places unspoken. He grabbed the darkest, reddest one he could, setting it on his desk.
He found a small, crystal tumbler and uncorked the Merlot. Next, he unloaded the cherry-red drink into the glass. Slippy corked the bottle and returned it to the fridge. He smiled. It was bliss. His hands wrapped around the cylindrical glass, watching flickers of light sparkle on its edges.
Ah, yes, Slippy mused. His magazine. He lurched forward slowly, extracting it from the desktop. The title, written with a scratchy, grunge font, was placed unmethodically at the top center of the cover. Graphic design wasn't something he was well-versed in, but he knew that the letters were intentionally printed in such a manner to draw the audience's hidden angst.
THE EDGE was his favorite. He bookmarked a new article sometime a few days back, still unread. Slippy's fingers flipped, finding the page. OW: THE EUPHORIA OF PAIN headed the anonymous content. He felt complete. Mozart vibrated his room. The composer's orchestra and symphony melded with his tumbler of delicate red wine. Sensations came next as he read.
Slippy had a realization. Somewhere through the notes, the article talking about the human condition of angst and rebellion, the blush-vermillion spirit, Slippy had an epiphany. That epiphany was simple: he did not need Star Fox. He never had, really. All of his accomplishments stemmed from total understanding of who he was.
Who he was now was not who he was before. It was a conflict, but that felt okay, too. He sipped on the drink. In a different time, Fox, Falco, the rest, would be telling him how to handle a job. They looked down on him, probably. Pity? No, maybe this was different. They saw him as… what was it he had thought? Less than.
But less than became more than ages back, whenever that was. It was so long ago. Perhaps his new life played a role in that. Who knew. But Slippy, for all his new realizations, did know he was happy. Intelligent, too. Resourceful and expertly proficient. Yes, it's who he was and what he could do.
I've always been this – I can see it more than I was able to.
He felt his phone vibrate. Slippy grabbed it from his pocket and scrutinized each ping.
A new client had messaged. Well, that was fine for now. The night was still beating with a fresh heart of starlight. He had more time, anyway. What else was he doing? He started a new message encrypted with a deep algorithm.
"What can I do for you?" Slippy muttered.
