Chapter Two:
A camouflage-clad Fox McCloud and Co: Bill Grey, Falco Lombardi,
Slippy Toad, had landed their newly-acquired, yet to be named, shuttlecraft in the emerald green hills in the extreme south of the large, northern continent of Dylar I. The team decided this was the best place to hide the craft; although the winter had passed, it was still plenty cold. After sufficiently covering it with as much plant matter as the team could find, they hiked approximately one mile south, to the northern bank of the river that formed the natural boundary between the larger northern continent and the smaller, central subcontinent; the subcontinent about seventy-five miles in length, about twenty-five miles in width. The two area's weather systems were polar opposites: the northern continent having a cold, often icy and snowy climate, with green pastures and rolling hills, the subcontinent almost always blistering hot and swampy, even during the winter months.
It was on the northern bank of the river that they set up "camp", inside a cave, about thirty feet from the water's edge, facing south. Their camp consisted of nothing more than cots with sleeping bags, various supply crates, and a radio, with camouflage antenna set up just outside, and a dark green tarp covering the entrance.
These four "furries" had come not to conquer, as had our heroine slumbering peacefully on a hill about three miles to the south, but as official explorer-types, on behalf of the Cornerian government, more specifically for a certain muckety-muck Cornerian Army general, who shall remain nameless. Although receiving an obscene fortune for exploring this territory unknown to the Cornerians, the joke was really on them: they were given little or no intelligence about the system, or even the world they were to explore; you see, their destination was determined like this:
Their general has a huge map in his command...place, showing all territory known to the Cornerians (which did not amount to very much), and a lot of black....
"General, this newly-installed map here shows all territory known to the Cornerian Republic, the blackness obviously representing unexplored territory,"said the young feline-- four days out of the Army Academy--crisply. Also nervously, for being given the honor of speaking to anyone above the rank of major, standing almost at attention.
" Sir, we have some very promising leads as to possible new star systems--" the general cut him off.
"Yes, of course, son. Hmmm... what about this area over...here...?" he questioned, almost absentmindedly, letting his finger wander for a second.
" Well, sir, nothing rea–" The second lieutenant was interrupted again.
"What? nonsense! There must be something over there! I mean--what are the odds?" the general exclaimed, laughing, his portly self quivering--
"I mean–Colonel, back me up here!" the dog shouted, motioning to his colonel-aid. A hare.
"Oh yes, jolly good, sah! Must be something in all that confounded blackness, wot wot!"
Was the colonel's reply, laughing like an idiot.
Everyone in the room burst into laughter over their general's brilliant decision...that is, except for the young feline second lieutenant, and the stoic senior enlisted men, who had by this time lost all faith in the system, the cat now holding his head in his hands, on the verge of tears.
Taking a break from laughing, the general said--
"What the hell, send StarFox to explore it!"
The two Marines on guard on the other side of the door were startled by the sudden burst of laughter, especially since it was coming from such an "official" room. The young, lupine lance corporal was the first to speak--
"What you suppose they's laughing about?" he asked, looking expectantly over at his senior, a full corporal to his right; another hare.
"Who cares? Semper fi, bitch!" was his gruff reply.
After this short exchange of words, both Marines returned to their statue-like position of attention, staring ahead down the hall as if nothing had happened.
And so it was, that band of Conernerian mercenaries otherwise known as the StarFox team came into play.
Anyway, back to the serious stuff
The four companions had finished setting up camp, with their cots, radio, etc, at around 19:00. Fox and Bill were the only two still at camp, Falco and Slippy having been sent out on their security patrol.
Fox was kneeling several feet from the cave entrance, having formed a crude fire pit from stones found in the immediate vicinity, attempting to make a fire from the few small pieces of wood, and lots of grass.
" Damnit! All of these stupid little pieces of wood are soggy, and this stupid grass don't burn for more than thirty-seconds! I'm sure glad I hiked all the way back to the prairie to get it!God it's cold!" Exasperated after forty minutes of trying to create a fire, the man, rubbing his arms in the hope of stimulating blood circulation, walked over to a nearby log, sitting down, closing his eyes in an attempt to meditate his pissy mood away.
After a few moments of inner peace, Fox was startled by a deafening wave of sound from inside the cave; it was Bill blasting punk rock.
"God damnit." He spoke quietly to himself.
Somewhat worried by this potential threat to all their safety, still in a bad mood over the fire, or lack thereof, he covered his ears in a vain attempt to save his eardrums from bursting, and stalked back over to the cave, throwing the tarp open, going down the slightly sloping ten feet between the entrance and living space. He attempted to yell over the din–useless. Next he waved his arms about frantically, trying to get the husky's attention; it took several moments for him to be noticed. Bill, seeing his captain trying to signal him, calmly turned to his stereo, turned it off.
" Hey, man, knock it off! Do you want every goddamn animal, or dangerous alien for that matter, hearing that crap?" By now, Fox was pretty exasperated; by the impossibility of lighting a decent fire, and now by this great big noise that was sure to attract some unwanted attention. But Bill, not even blinking because of Fox's fiery entrance, had this to say–
" First of all, fuck you; this isn't crap. Secondly...hah! Dangerous aliens? If anything, I think, that if that huge ruckus made by a ship as large as our shuttlecraft landing, and us setting up camp, didn't alert anybody, then I'm sure my music, or your trying to light a fuckin' fire, clearly visible from quite a distance"-- cough–" shouldn't be cause for much worry! Besides, we have four people in our group, two at camp, two on "sentry duty".... even if there were dangerous aliens watching us, I don't think it would be too challenging to sneak by two sentries, I mean, they could just sneak up on us during the night and...I dunno... slit our throats.....and nobody'd know anything was up until it was too late!" Bill finished excitedly, a broad, toothy grin illuminating his face.
There was a brief pause, Fox having been made rather worried by Bill exposing that awful truth. Fox broke the pause, sounding concerned, speaking quietly–
"Hey....you don't really think they'd do that, do you? Sneak up on us and....slit our throats?"
he asked, holding his. Bill sent an unknowing blink back at Fox, tilting his head to the side some, shrugging his shoulders, replying–
" Well, there's really no way of knowing, is there? Guess we'll find out if'n it happens......" his head suddenly sticking up straight again "...hey, where're the MREs at?"
Fox sighed, walking over to a stack of silver crates. He rummaged through it for a moment, then pulled out two of the dark green packages containing the Meals Ready to Eat. With one in each hand, he turned around and asked–
"Alright, do you want "steak dinner", or "Jamaican curry chicken?"
Meanwhile, Falco and Slippy were on their security-patrol- turned-nature-hike with rifles, about two miles south of camp, where the alternately hilly and swampy, and, strangely enough, somewhat foresty, part of the region began. They were both doing their best, or so they thought, to be stealthy amid the tall grass, and water, ranging from ankle-deep to calf-deep. Falco was doing pretty well, moving slowly, picking up his feet while going through the water, keeping his gun at the ready, making sure to keep a low profile, moving about a hundred yards at a time, then checking his surroundings before moving again; his Marine drill instructors would have been proud. Slippy, on the other hand, was showing off all the skills he had learned from Chuck Norris: switching between the "squatting run" position, crawling forward on hands and knees, despite the water, and jumping from boulder to boulder, occasionally losing a few rounds from his rifle(he had sent many a reed to an early death so far that evening), not picking up his feet, as one who wants to go quietly through a swamp should.
Falco, as always had something snide to say--
"Slippy, you are about as stealthy as a Mack truck! You.....ugg!" The raptor scolded his toad companion.
Slippy, having apparently not heard Falco, replied to him quietly–
"What, you heard something, Falco? Where?" Slippy replied, a crazed look on his face, the sights of his weapon fixed on some perfectly harmless object a few feet away.
Falco didn't even reply, now disgusted by his friend's complete lack of military bearing, going off an a tangent to himself--
"This is what happens when you let an ex goddamn Navy mechanic, who spends most of his time reading tech manuals, with shit infantry training, go on a mission like this! Fuck, I don't think I've ever even seen him do anything in the gym onboard ship, huh, besides for talking to people! Even Peppy is better suited for a task like this–at least he has some experience boarding enemy ships!" Falco continued, " It's a wonder his rifle still works after being dragged through the dirt, and water!"
About forty minutes later, past the the small foresty strp of land, the had gotten mile into the swampy, hilly country. Both furries had grown very weary of this dead-end-sentry-assignment- turned-well-armed frolic, and Slippy, for the first time that day, came up with a good idea:
"Hey, Falco, maybe we should hump it back to camp?" he queried. The raptor thought for a minute, replying--
" Yeah, that sounds good. Why don't you radio camp, and tell 'em we're coming?"
Slippy nodded, taking off his large backpack radio, setting it on a nearby rock. Whilst fiddling with the various knobs and buttons, he realized that he had no idea which frequency was the agreed upon one.
"Hey, Falcs, what channel we using to talk to each other? Between us and camp, I mean,"
the toad asked. Falco looked down at him, pondering the question for a few moments.
"Umm...I'm not sure. I wanna say 4.5, but you should send an all-frequency message just in case. Wait, did you just call me "Falcs"?"
Ignoring Falco's last question, Slippy,, replied-- " You sure that's smart? I mean, what if somebody were listening?"
Falco didn't seem too worried at that prospect, caring more about Slippy's "college boy" response–
"What? "What if someone were listening?" This isn't Harvard yard, man. Who cares, just do it," was the Falcon's bitter answer, further mumbling--
"Damn college folk and their "higher education". Never did nutin' for nobody."
Slippy was equally peeved--
" I hope you don't eat those words later–jarhead! Aint my fault you barely finished high school. Probably just sore because your grades weren't good enough for Taco Bell Academy! Hmmph!"College boy", indeed!"
It was now almost pitch black.
Shining his flashlight on them, young toad fiddled about with the radio's controls for a minute more, then picked up the receiver. Putting his light down, he keyed it--
"Slippy to base, Slippy to base, over." He spoke quickly, quietly. Nothing but static, the signal strength indicating "23". Falco's eyes widened, the "what's up?" look on his face--
"No response? Are you broadcasting on all frequencies?"
"Sure, it's broadcasting on all frequencies--at least it's supposed to be," was Slippy's reply, somewhat vexed. Then an idea came–
"You know what? This is probably just a bad place; I need to go to higher ground to do this."
Falco wasn't so sure–
"Slippy, listen to what you're saying: No signal? This is a long-range military radio, not a cell phone. Damnit, Slippy...."
Falco began to lecture his slightly younger companion, becoming so enthraled that he didn't even notice when Slippy shouldered his pack again and began trotting towards the nearest piece of higher ground: a medium-sized hill with a large tree at the top, the only such hill for miles......
Falco finished his lecture, sighing–
"So, Slippy, certainly you must see my point–hey. Where'd you go?"
Falco asked, finishing his talk, finally noticing that the young toad had gone, and seeing him sloshing his way towards the hill without him. The falcon was naturally taken quite aback by this rudeness, even if he did deserve it, and, with an indignant grunt, the raptor picked up his rifle which he had set on a large rock when he wanted to wipe the sweat off his hands, and walked forward slowly, calling to Slippy.
In the time it had taken Falco to notice Slippy's absence, the toad's short legs had carried him the two-hundred yards from his original position, standing next to the rock amid the reeds, and a few feet up the hill, only stopping when his raptor companion called to him–
"Slippy, where are you going?"
"Falco, we talked about this; I'm going to higher, unswampy, ground to see if I can get a better signal."
Falco, tired of his orders being ignored, conceded–
"You know, two hours ago, I would have been angry at you, but now, I don't really give a flyin'!"
Slippy just smiled back, the younger amphibian knowing that the conversation was over, and continued on his way up the hill, chuckling all the while; Falco opted not to follow, rather to plop himself down and fume in private, throwing off his cap.
His mood, now rather jovial from having just told off his long time semi-rival, and having got away with it, Slippy trotted the rest of the way up the hill, halting just out of reach of the resident tree's outer branches, ignoring the dark form leaning almost unconsciously against it, which appeared to be part of the trunk.
The toad removed radio from back, standing it up amidst the dried out, golden grass. He fiddled again with the various controls on the radio's face, setting it to broadcast on all frequencies, as he had before. Satisfied that the radio was attuned properly, showing a "90" on the signal strength, the toad unbuttoned the receiver's holster, removing it--
"Stupid Falco. I told you I just needed to get to higher ground," he commented under his breath.
A pair of glowing yellow eyes opened behind him, the head shaking, two lanky, armor-clad arms reaching into the air, stretching after hours of not being used.
Slippy set the receiver to his ear, squeezing the handle to transmit–
"Slippy to base, Slippy to base, over." Speaking loudly, bordering on excited.
Back at camp, Fox was still on guard outside, while Bill, having become tired after his long day of doing nothing, decided to try and get some sleep before he had to stand sentry in a couple of hours. He tore off his shirt and socks and climbed into his sleeping bag, still wearing his camouflage pants. Dimming the lantern, he zipped himself in, having just enough time to make himself feel all warm and snugly, when he heard Slippy's high-pitched voice over the radio. Now in a bad mood, he begrudgingly got out of his bag, swearing colorfully as he went over to it.
"Slippy to base, Slippy to base, over."
Bill picked up the small, black mic, keyed the transmit button--
"Yeah, Slip, what's up?" the husky replied drowsily.
"Oh, thank goodness. It's good to hear someone's voice besides for Falco!" Slippy chirped back. Bill had no patience for this interruption of sleep--
"Yes, Slippy, it's wonderful that you and Falco have bonded so wonderfully in the forest together, but, umm...–what d' you want?"
The amphibian was taken aback.
"Well sorry, I was just–" He was interrupted again, "Slippy!"
"Alright, I'm just radioing in to tell you guys that we're coming back; we didn't find anything of importance out here, except for what the terrain's like." He sounded like a young child that had just been spanked.
"Alright, thank you, Slippy. We'll be expecting your return. Bye bye,." Bill finished. But before Bill could even set the mic down, a thought crossed his mind--
"You know, that wasn't very nice of me. I wonder if I should say sorry to the guy? I mean, I know that he takes the butt end of a hell of a lot of jokes from the crew, although they're usually just kidding......"
The husky pondered it for a moment, then realizing that his footies had become rather cold in the absence of socks, decided against it, dashing back to bed, letting the mic dangle from it's cord.
Slippy put the receiver back in its holder, buttoning it. It was exactly at that moment that he heard it: something scraping against the tree about twenty feet behind him, the jingling of equipment hanging from something, something shifting position, the heavy, metallic sound. It was like hearing someone walking in......metal boots? Slippy, shaking like nobody's business, sweating profusely, was too terrified to turn around. The sound came nearer him: Thump. Thump. Thump. Suddenly it stopped, replaced by deafening silence, then a voice; not a voice like you and I have, but a voice speaking to him inside his head, in a tone that he had never heard before.....it sounded like the voice of an alien from some science fiction flick, like it was being carried on the wind. It spoke to him in a tongue he had never before heard--
" Vehr bihst doo? Vaahs bihst doo? Doo bihst keiner tszerg, neecht mensch. Vohair kumst doo?" It questioned him.
Slippy finally got up enough guts to turn and face his interrogator, soon wishing he hadn't.
Now, if you've never seen a Protoss warrior, or any Protoss for that matter, your first encounter might leave you somewhat.....unsettled, especially in the pitch black. What awaited the amphibian when he turned around: the tall, dark figure, standing at around seven feet, the outline of a suit of armor plainly visible, the dark, scaly skin, the long, dark, thick bundle if nerve endings hanging like a ponytail from the back of its head, secured by ornamental metal rings, its face, besides for the glowing yellow eyes, and the small nose, completely featureless.
At first, this fascinated, then scared the crap out of the "furry" sitting at its feet. Then, in a gesture of good will, it extended its rather large hand, attached to its very long arm, to Slippy, bending down some, as if to help him up, speaking again, this time much more softly; on its face, as friendly a look as one without a mouth can give--
"Bihst doo froindleehch?"
This was the last straw for Slippy: He let out a blood-curdling scream, then scrambled to his feet.
Falco, who had been sitting some distance away at the base of the hill, had been completely oblivious to the happenings at the top of the hill. He jumped to his feet, a death grip on his rifle at the sound of that scream. Making sure the clip he had loaded in his rifle was full, he switched the safety off, trying to decide whether or not to run up the hill, then came to the following conclusion, to quote Bart Simpson–
"What the hell?–We're all gonna be murdered some day!" And with that said, replacing the his cap firmly on head, he was off.
The Protoss was quite shocked by Slippy's reaction, quickly withdrawing its hand, taking a step back, it's eyes widening slightly, worried that it had somehow offended this Cornerian. It attempted to reconcile once again—
" Bitteh, nine, shree-eh neehcht!" But Slippy couldn't be talked down. As soon as his voice box was tired of screaming, he ran as fast as possible in the direction of the camp, three and a half miles away.
It was this, the worst possible, moment that Falco burst onto the scene. The Protoss, very perplexed, watched as Falco decided that a few rounds from his rifle would remedy the confusion; it didn't. Falco fired six shots, four in the air, two, by accident, at the alien warrior, both bouncing harmlessly off its armor, but that was enough: the Protoss let out a roar, called upon its great reserve of psionic energy to "activate" its head-to-toe, all-enveloping energy shields, its two curved energy blades lancing out from slits on the wrist guards, immediately giving chase.
By now, as usual, the fleeing Slippy was a good distance away before Falco followed suit, running for dear life through the water, falling down once or twice, all the time yelling–
"Oh shit, oh shit! I can't believe this shit! What was that shit?", the hulking alien charging after as fast as its armor would allow, energy blades chopping a path through the plant-congested swamp, throwing up huge waves of water every time it set a foot down.
Some distance later, after Falco had stopped hearing the sounds of that great beast thundering after him, he finally slowed down a bit, not feeling too hot; he commented to himself--
" Thank the stars that thing stopped running!"-- panting-- " I was entirely sure that I was a deadman...... I chose one hell of a week not to do my usual five-miler." The falcon stood there a minute more, catching his breath, then proceeded.
After walking some while, he saw another dark figure about a hundred yards ahead of him; fearing the worst, the raptor took cover behind a tree, fixing his rifle's sights on the shadow in front of him. To his relief, a friendly voice was attached to it: it was Fox, rifle in hand, who, upon seeing him, immediately asked--
"Fuck, Falco, are you okay?" He was deeply concerned after hearing Slippy's story, told haltingly, after barging back into the cave, who then broke down crying, in the fetal position.
The falcon said nothing in response. Dropping his rifle on the ground, eyes becoming wet, he engaged Fox in a hug, taking him off guard. The canine was especially worried by this: what could make someone that lives at suppressing their emotions for the sake of money breakdown like that?
Pushing the thought from his mind; looping his rifle's shoulder strap around his left shoulder, he wrapped his free arm around his friend's shoulders, and slowly he guided the perturbed falcon back to camp.
Edullon stopped chasing the Cornerians after about a mile and a half, and as she stood there, she pondered this....happening: She did not know if the two "attackers" were truly that, or if this unfortunate occurrence was merely the result of a grave misunderstanding, and had meant no harm, OR, if they had malice aforethought, and had intended to kill or capture her. All were equally plausible, but she was more sure that it was the latter. Standing there, she made the following "ultimatum" to herself--
"In the morning, when better light is come, I shall follow these tracks that my would-be assailants have left, through the forest, to their camp. Yes....and when I have reached their camp, I shall discover their intent; be it good, I shall most likely go on my way.....however, if it be malicious, I shall have to avenge that unprovoked attack upon myself, however many lives I must take in doing so....."
And with that, she began searching for a suitable place to rest for the night, finally found in a hollowed out tree trunk.