Chapter Seven: "The Awakening"
"So--you lied to me."
Celestra opened her eyes with an effort and turned her head to regard the speaker. The crew members bearing questionable injuries had been asked to board Pepper's cruiser, where they were taken to the hospital wing and thoroughly looked over. The assassin had been placed in a cryogenic sleep chamber, and the doctors had x-rayed her arms for any broken bones. When they deduced that there were none, Celestra had been stablized and left to sleep in an isolated hospital bed. Now, though, she did wake as she studied the handsome face of Captain Anilora.
"What are you d-d-doing here?" she yawned, sitting up and ignoring the light-headedness she felt. "You weren't hurt in the fight, were you?"
Anilora shook his head, then waved one hand about, indicating her and the room. Celestra rubbed her eyes to conceal her blush, then, as an afterthought, added, "I lied to you? You'll have to be more specific."
"You assured me that it was too late to befriend the Star Fox team," he elaborated with a soft smile.
Celestra lay back, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, and Anilora drug a stool to the side of her bed to be near her. He was startled, though, when he studied her eyes and saw tears in them. Celestra Marquette was one person he had never seen in such a state of weakness. Worried, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Celestra, I'm sorry, I--"
"Gilraen," she cut him off quietly, blinking the droplets back, "I don't know who I am anymore. I used to be so--I don't know--steadfast, I guess. Like no one could touch me, no one could get inside and know me. Now I feel like a few people are seeing my inner self, and I'm not sure if I want them to or not."
Anilora leaned back, studying her carefully through his deep violet eyes and stroking his chin with his hand. It was difficult for him to see the assassin in such a struggle of indecision, but he wasn't sure if he was the man to help her through it. He knew he was one of those few people beginning to see the other side of Celestra, and knew also that she was having quite a time at putting her stress into words. After a few minutes of undisturbed contemplation, Anilora shook himself from his reverie and said, "It seems the task before you is to decide which person you want to be."
Celestra tilted her head to one side, not quite understanding. "I'm not sure I follow you."
"Well, look at it this way. The Celestra I know is a successful assassin--beautiful and deadly, yet cold, hard, and vengeful. She has a difficult time fathoming emotions such as love and friendship, I would guess, but that is because she isolates herself from others and perfers to tread her difficult road alone.
"But the Celestra that Peppy Hare used to know would have given anything to protect someone she cared for. She would have tackled any task, no matter how impossible, with the knowledge that she would always have supportive friends behind her. She was out to make the galaxy a better place, not to merely survive in it.
"Now, what you have to do is discover what event or chain of events in your life so drastically altered who you are, then decide which person you would rather be."
A ringing silence fell, in which Celestra's eyes glossed over as every word of Anilora's speech sunk in. He was right--she almost hated how transparent she was to him--but what did that mean? How was she supposed to discern the factor in her past responsible for molding her into this unfeeling, uncaring assassin?
Anilora marked well the blatant confusion on Celestra's face and stood up, brushing his navy blue cargo pants off nervously. "I have given you quite enough to think about," he murmured, then he bent low, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and exited as noiselessly as he could.
Celestra barely took note of his passing, merely turned over onto her stomach and buried her face in a pillow, ebony hair cascading over her neck and shoulders carelessly. It seemed a lifetime away, her journey from Macbeth to Corneria, but somewhere in her subconscious she vaguely remembered seeing her home burst into flame, hearing Peppy's retelling of James' death, feeling the warmth of Bill's arms around her the many times he had tried to comfort her, and gradually all the memories filtered back to her, the good and the bad, and she remembered who she had been.
That was the child, an innocent little girl who had not yet seen the cruelty and injustice of war. But now who was she?
The assassin lifted her head, tears threatening to fall from her eyes again. All the world had ground to a sickening halt, leaving her with the truth of who, of what, she had truly become. Somewhere between then and now she had slowly transformed into one of the killers in the galaxy that she was so frequently hired to destroy.
At first she dismissed the notion; there was no real truth behind it. Upon closer inspection, though, Celestra was horrified when she realized that she was no better than common thieves and murderers. She killed for money; whether or not she did it for a good cause suddenly didn't matter. To the girl she had been, the mere thought of it sickened her; to the person she was now, her profession was a way of life, and no more than second nature.
Celestra put her head in her hands and cried as she had not cried in years. Into her slender hands she poured out her frustration, her misplaced hatred, and all the malicious stains upon her soul that she had gained along the way. And somewhere in the twenty minutes that she cried, Celestra Marquette, the daughter of Jarius and Olivia Marquette, the Macbethian, the innocent, carefree seven-year-old, woke up.
When finally she raised her head to mop up her sopping face, she locked gazes with Peppy Hare.
The hare didn't say anything at first; in all actuality, he really didn't have to, for as soon as Captain Anilora had left Celestra he had gone straight to the mercenary and explained the girls' predicament. He stood motionless now, doing his best to appear unthreatening, feeling as though he was approaching an exotic, rabid animal. The pair stared at each other, sharing a contemplative moment much like the one they had shared some twelve years ago when he had rescued her from the Legacy and brought her upon Great Fox.
Then, beyond any action Peppy had expected her to make first, Celestra smiled. It wasn't just any regular smile that could be dismissed after a moments' notice, but a genuine smile, the one that had warmed a young Bill's heart when nothing else could, the one that had made Gilraen Anilora fall in love several years before.
It was the smile of Peppy's adopted daughter.
"Oh, Peppy!" she exclaimed, sitting up to her full height and pushing the bedsheets aside. "I . . . never told you this, but . . . I really . . . missed you."
He stared at her for a moment, disbelieving, but then she held out her arms to him and beckoned for a hug. Peppy hurried to her side, sat close to her, and threw his arms around her, stroking her shiny hair and cradling her head to his chest. Celestra returned the embrace tenfold, feeling for the first time in twelve years as though she were home.
"Remind me to thank Gilraen, won't you?" she asked.
Peppy chuckled through his tears of joy. "I don't think you'll forget to do that yourself, kiddo."
On the other side of the door, Captain Anilora turned away and departed down the hall for his private quarters, grinning heartily and feeling as though the scene he had just witness was thanks enough.
~~*~~
"That's absolutely unacceptable, I'm afraid. You are dismissed, and do not set foot in my presence again unless you bear more pleasant news."
The soldier cowered and backed away, bowing ceaselessly until he had turned a corner and was out of sight. High upon his throne he sighed, tapping his long, crude fingernails upon the armrest and staring into empty space, thinking.
"O'Donnel." His voice came out low and raspy, a poisonous whisper that caused every guard in the hall to shiver uncontrollably. "Wolf O'Donnel, it is time for us to continue our business dealings. Report."
A large screen poised in the center of the room crackled to life, and a grey wolf appeared before him, highly distinguishable by his meticulously bushy tail, black eye patch, and electric-blue eye. Smirking maliciously, Wolf bowed low, straightening his flight vest. "My Lord. Too long it has been since last we met."
"Too true, but I haven't the time for such idle pleasantries these days, O'Donnel. I have a job for you and your team."
At the word 'job', Wolf's keen ears perked up noticeably and he leaned forward. "You have my attention, my Lord. Please continue."
"The new defensive outpost for the Cornerian army has recently been located on the southernmost reaches of the planet Fortuna," he explained, still tapping his fingernails eerily and eying Wolf with keen interest. "It is very important that the base become mine. I will give you three days. That is all."
Wolf paused, slightly taken aback by the shrewdness of the request. Taking a few seconds to recover, though, he found himself complying. "I accept on behalf of Star Wolf. Will I be granted reinforcements, my Lord?"
"They will be on Fortuna waiting for your arrival, O'Donnel. Now, listen carefully--earlier this evening, the fleet I sent to waylay that foolish Anilora was annihilated in Sector Y combat zone. It is my understanding that Star Fox and the assassin Marquette were the main cause of this."
The mercenary leader twitched his tail thoughtfully.
"They will most likely attempt to spoil these plans. On your life, O'Donnel, be sure that they fail."
Now Wolf was smiling again. "I understand perfectly, my Lord. Put your faith in me--Star Fox will fall."
"Excellent," he purred, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "Oh, O'Donnel, one more thing--do not be surprised if I see fit to assign you a bit of extra help."
"Of course," Wolf agreed, then he snapped into a uniform salute and de-materialized from view.
From his perch, he signaled to another of his many attendants. "Get me Frost. Immediately."
This time it took many minutes for a figure to appear on the screen, but when one did, the occupant of the throne did not mind the wait. The figure wasn't tall, but of average height with a lithely, compacted, muscular body that had long since been honed to its deadliest perfection. Everything about him radiated meticulous organization and faultlessness, from the superlative grooming of his jet-black raven's feathers to the mint condition of his forest green flight jacket and boots. He might have been normal, even good-looking, were it not for his eyes: they were an unplaceable green, empty, cold, and fathomless. In short, he resonated the look of one who has been through the most dangerous ordeals and never been bested.
"Well, my Lord, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," the raven began, smoothing a stray feather and crossing his arms. "I was tending to a few--ah--personal affairs."
He relaxed in his throne, placing his fingertips together and grinning. "Ah, Reivin Frost--the work of an assassin never ends?"
"Too true, too true," Reivin lamented casually. "I have heard of the eradication of your fourth regiment this night, my Lord. Most unfortunate."
"Indeed," he gritted; most people would have cowered under that tone, but Reivin Frost seemed quite unimpressed. "I have a new task for you, Frost--on you will most certainly enjoy."
"Oh?" Reivin pressed, seating himself and idly buffering a combat knife from his belt. "Do tell."
"At this very moment, one of your greatest enemies is enjoying a victory aboard one of General Aronius Pepper's cruisers, by the name of Vortex Four."
The assassin set his knife aside and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. The expression of disinterest had melted from his face, replaced by one of cold hatred. "Which? I have many."
"Celestra Marquette."
Reivin's eyes blazed at the mention of the name, searing with sincere hatred. "You tell me this why?"
"Because as we speak, Star Wolf is moving to wrench the Fortunan defensive base from the hands of Pepper's forces, and this move will most certainly stir Marquette and Star Fox into action."
The evil assassin rose from his seat, collecting several weapons and tucking them into a utility belt he had strapped over one shoulder. "I will depart immediately, my Lord." He gave a short, jerky bow and moved to depart, but the man on the throne stopped him short.
"Keep in mind, Frost, the critical nature of this mission," he whispered menacingly. "And I will only tell you this once--Marquette cannot be allowed to live."
"Understood," Reivin affirmed, and the G-Diffuser screen blackened.
He settled back into his throne, calling for a glass of wine, and grinned wickedly to himself. Reivin Frost would hunt Celestra Marquette to the ends of the universe for his own personal pleasure, and Wolf O'Donnel's crew were more than a match for Fox McCloud and his useless teammates.
Such was the power of Andross, the Tyrant of Lylat.
"So--you lied to me."
Celestra opened her eyes with an effort and turned her head to regard the speaker. The crew members bearing questionable injuries had been asked to board Pepper's cruiser, where they were taken to the hospital wing and thoroughly looked over. The assassin had been placed in a cryogenic sleep chamber, and the doctors had x-rayed her arms for any broken bones. When they deduced that there were none, Celestra had been stablized and left to sleep in an isolated hospital bed. Now, though, she did wake as she studied the handsome face of Captain Anilora.
"What are you d-d-doing here?" she yawned, sitting up and ignoring the light-headedness she felt. "You weren't hurt in the fight, were you?"
Anilora shook his head, then waved one hand about, indicating her and the room. Celestra rubbed her eyes to conceal her blush, then, as an afterthought, added, "I lied to you? You'll have to be more specific."
"You assured me that it was too late to befriend the Star Fox team," he elaborated with a soft smile.
Celestra lay back, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, and Anilora drug a stool to the side of her bed to be near her. He was startled, though, when he studied her eyes and saw tears in them. Celestra Marquette was one person he had never seen in such a state of weakness. Worried, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Celestra, I'm sorry, I--"
"Gilraen," she cut him off quietly, blinking the droplets back, "I don't know who I am anymore. I used to be so--I don't know--steadfast, I guess. Like no one could touch me, no one could get inside and know me. Now I feel like a few people are seeing my inner self, and I'm not sure if I want them to or not."
Anilora leaned back, studying her carefully through his deep violet eyes and stroking his chin with his hand. It was difficult for him to see the assassin in such a struggle of indecision, but he wasn't sure if he was the man to help her through it. He knew he was one of those few people beginning to see the other side of Celestra, and knew also that she was having quite a time at putting her stress into words. After a few minutes of undisturbed contemplation, Anilora shook himself from his reverie and said, "It seems the task before you is to decide which person you want to be."
Celestra tilted her head to one side, not quite understanding. "I'm not sure I follow you."
"Well, look at it this way. The Celestra I know is a successful assassin--beautiful and deadly, yet cold, hard, and vengeful. She has a difficult time fathoming emotions such as love and friendship, I would guess, but that is because she isolates herself from others and perfers to tread her difficult road alone.
"But the Celestra that Peppy Hare used to know would have given anything to protect someone she cared for. She would have tackled any task, no matter how impossible, with the knowledge that she would always have supportive friends behind her. She was out to make the galaxy a better place, not to merely survive in it.
"Now, what you have to do is discover what event or chain of events in your life so drastically altered who you are, then decide which person you would rather be."
A ringing silence fell, in which Celestra's eyes glossed over as every word of Anilora's speech sunk in. He was right--she almost hated how transparent she was to him--but what did that mean? How was she supposed to discern the factor in her past responsible for molding her into this unfeeling, uncaring assassin?
Anilora marked well the blatant confusion on Celestra's face and stood up, brushing his navy blue cargo pants off nervously. "I have given you quite enough to think about," he murmured, then he bent low, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and exited as noiselessly as he could.
Celestra barely took note of his passing, merely turned over onto her stomach and buried her face in a pillow, ebony hair cascading over her neck and shoulders carelessly. It seemed a lifetime away, her journey from Macbeth to Corneria, but somewhere in her subconscious she vaguely remembered seeing her home burst into flame, hearing Peppy's retelling of James' death, feeling the warmth of Bill's arms around her the many times he had tried to comfort her, and gradually all the memories filtered back to her, the good and the bad, and she remembered who she had been.
That was the child, an innocent little girl who had not yet seen the cruelty and injustice of war. But now who was she?
The assassin lifted her head, tears threatening to fall from her eyes again. All the world had ground to a sickening halt, leaving her with the truth of who, of what, she had truly become. Somewhere between then and now she had slowly transformed into one of the killers in the galaxy that she was so frequently hired to destroy.
At first she dismissed the notion; there was no real truth behind it. Upon closer inspection, though, Celestra was horrified when she realized that she was no better than common thieves and murderers. She killed for money; whether or not she did it for a good cause suddenly didn't matter. To the girl she had been, the mere thought of it sickened her; to the person she was now, her profession was a way of life, and no more than second nature.
Celestra put her head in her hands and cried as she had not cried in years. Into her slender hands she poured out her frustration, her misplaced hatred, and all the malicious stains upon her soul that she had gained along the way. And somewhere in the twenty minutes that she cried, Celestra Marquette, the daughter of Jarius and Olivia Marquette, the Macbethian, the innocent, carefree seven-year-old, woke up.
When finally she raised her head to mop up her sopping face, she locked gazes with Peppy Hare.
The hare didn't say anything at first; in all actuality, he really didn't have to, for as soon as Captain Anilora had left Celestra he had gone straight to the mercenary and explained the girls' predicament. He stood motionless now, doing his best to appear unthreatening, feeling as though he was approaching an exotic, rabid animal. The pair stared at each other, sharing a contemplative moment much like the one they had shared some twelve years ago when he had rescued her from the Legacy and brought her upon Great Fox.
Then, beyond any action Peppy had expected her to make first, Celestra smiled. It wasn't just any regular smile that could be dismissed after a moments' notice, but a genuine smile, the one that had warmed a young Bill's heart when nothing else could, the one that had made Gilraen Anilora fall in love several years before.
It was the smile of Peppy's adopted daughter.
"Oh, Peppy!" she exclaimed, sitting up to her full height and pushing the bedsheets aside. "I . . . never told you this, but . . . I really . . . missed you."
He stared at her for a moment, disbelieving, but then she held out her arms to him and beckoned for a hug. Peppy hurried to her side, sat close to her, and threw his arms around her, stroking her shiny hair and cradling her head to his chest. Celestra returned the embrace tenfold, feeling for the first time in twelve years as though she were home.
"Remind me to thank Gilraen, won't you?" she asked.
Peppy chuckled through his tears of joy. "I don't think you'll forget to do that yourself, kiddo."
On the other side of the door, Captain Anilora turned away and departed down the hall for his private quarters, grinning heartily and feeling as though the scene he had just witness was thanks enough.
~~*~~
"That's absolutely unacceptable, I'm afraid. You are dismissed, and do not set foot in my presence again unless you bear more pleasant news."
The soldier cowered and backed away, bowing ceaselessly until he had turned a corner and was out of sight. High upon his throne he sighed, tapping his long, crude fingernails upon the armrest and staring into empty space, thinking.
"O'Donnel." His voice came out low and raspy, a poisonous whisper that caused every guard in the hall to shiver uncontrollably. "Wolf O'Donnel, it is time for us to continue our business dealings. Report."
A large screen poised in the center of the room crackled to life, and a grey wolf appeared before him, highly distinguishable by his meticulously bushy tail, black eye patch, and electric-blue eye. Smirking maliciously, Wolf bowed low, straightening his flight vest. "My Lord. Too long it has been since last we met."
"Too true, but I haven't the time for such idle pleasantries these days, O'Donnel. I have a job for you and your team."
At the word 'job', Wolf's keen ears perked up noticeably and he leaned forward. "You have my attention, my Lord. Please continue."
"The new defensive outpost for the Cornerian army has recently been located on the southernmost reaches of the planet Fortuna," he explained, still tapping his fingernails eerily and eying Wolf with keen interest. "It is very important that the base become mine. I will give you three days. That is all."
Wolf paused, slightly taken aback by the shrewdness of the request. Taking a few seconds to recover, though, he found himself complying. "I accept on behalf of Star Wolf. Will I be granted reinforcements, my Lord?"
"They will be on Fortuna waiting for your arrival, O'Donnel. Now, listen carefully--earlier this evening, the fleet I sent to waylay that foolish Anilora was annihilated in Sector Y combat zone. It is my understanding that Star Fox and the assassin Marquette were the main cause of this."
The mercenary leader twitched his tail thoughtfully.
"They will most likely attempt to spoil these plans. On your life, O'Donnel, be sure that they fail."
Now Wolf was smiling again. "I understand perfectly, my Lord. Put your faith in me--Star Fox will fall."
"Excellent," he purred, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "Oh, O'Donnel, one more thing--do not be surprised if I see fit to assign you a bit of extra help."
"Of course," Wolf agreed, then he snapped into a uniform salute and de-materialized from view.
From his perch, he signaled to another of his many attendants. "Get me Frost. Immediately."
This time it took many minutes for a figure to appear on the screen, but when one did, the occupant of the throne did not mind the wait. The figure wasn't tall, but of average height with a lithely, compacted, muscular body that had long since been honed to its deadliest perfection. Everything about him radiated meticulous organization and faultlessness, from the superlative grooming of his jet-black raven's feathers to the mint condition of his forest green flight jacket and boots. He might have been normal, even good-looking, were it not for his eyes: they were an unplaceable green, empty, cold, and fathomless. In short, he resonated the look of one who has been through the most dangerous ordeals and never been bested.
"Well, my Lord, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," the raven began, smoothing a stray feather and crossing his arms. "I was tending to a few--ah--personal affairs."
He relaxed in his throne, placing his fingertips together and grinning. "Ah, Reivin Frost--the work of an assassin never ends?"
"Too true, too true," Reivin lamented casually. "I have heard of the eradication of your fourth regiment this night, my Lord. Most unfortunate."
"Indeed," he gritted; most people would have cowered under that tone, but Reivin Frost seemed quite unimpressed. "I have a new task for you, Frost--on you will most certainly enjoy."
"Oh?" Reivin pressed, seating himself and idly buffering a combat knife from his belt. "Do tell."
"At this very moment, one of your greatest enemies is enjoying a victory aboard one of General Aronius Pepper's cruisers, by the name of Vortex Four."
The assassin set his knife aside and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. The expression of disinterest had melted from his face, replaced by one of cold hatred. "Which? I have many."
"Celestra Marquette."
Reivin's eyes blazed at the mention of the name, searing with sincere hatred. "You tell me this why?"
"Because as we speak, Star Wolf is moving to wrench the Fortunan defensive base from the hands of Pepper's forces, and this move will most certainly stir Marquette and Star Fox into action."
The evil assassin rose from his seat, collecting several weapons and tucking them into a utility belt he had strapped over one shoulder. "I will depart immediately, my Lord." He gave a short, jerky bow and moved to depart, but the man on the throne stopped him short.
"Keep in mind, Frost, the critical nature of this mission," he whispered menacingly. "And I will only tell you this once--Marquette cannot be allowed to live."
"Understood," Reivin affirmed, and the G-Diffuser screen blackened.
He settled back into his throne, calling for a glass of wine, and grinned wickedly to himself. Reivin Frost would hunt Celestra Marquette to the ends of the universe for his own personal pleasure, and Wolf O'Donnel's crew were more than a match for Fox McCloud and his useless teammates.
Such was the power of Andross, the Tyrant of Lylat.