Early the following day, the crew were at their posts, awaiting their next mission via electronic transmission. ROB fidgeted with the controls of the Great Fox, having nothing to do but being virtually unable to keep still while activated, and he didn't often let anyone but Slippy put him offline. And Slippy was in the shop, welding and tinkering underneath the Land Master as Peppy reviewed combat data in the adjoining room to guide him in his enhancements. Falco paced both areas, repeatedly whipping a gun out of his holster, twirling it in his hand and replacing it, while whistling a tune of wanderlust and boredom.
Finally, Slippy had had enough. "Falco, willya knock off that racket? I'm trying to work here," he croaked his annoyance.
Falco stopped in an arrogant pose, kept Slippy's attention for just a moment, and then pointed the gun at the Land Master. "And I'm practicing my quick draw," he rasped.
"Ahhh! Wouldya stop playing around with that thing! It's dangerous!" Slippy, forever the cowardly one, was visibly frightened, throwing his arms up in cover and putting his hands over his face. "You never lift a finger around here if it isn't for your own amusement. Why don't you grab a wrench and help me, if you know how."
Falco ruffled his feathers in his own annoyance. He and Slippy often bickered, toad insulting bird's intellect, and though Falco had given him little proof otherwise, Slippy knew Falco was smart. Perhaps even smarter than himself, when machines weren't involved, and it secretly ticked him off. In any event, Falco was vastly superior in reflexes, piloting skill and combat sense, and that alone left Slippy feeling bitter and inadequate, even having so much to offer the team in technical matters.
He snorted. "If I recall correctly, it's my job to be a good pilot, and it's your job to toy with the machines. I'm not in the way here, so mind your business and get back to work."
The room went dead silent as Slippy stopped what he was doing and rolled out from under the Land Master, face contorted with uncharacteristic fury. Falco had evidently touched on a nerve – touched on it, and stomped on it for good measure.
He stormed up to Falco. "You jerk! You're a … a complete pain in the ass, you know that! You always whine that my machines 'suck', that I'm … I'm a…" he shook with anger, searching for the right word, "a catalyst for disaster!"
Falco burst into a scornful laugh at this and said, "You really can't help it, can you? You have to try to be so smart all the time, even if that's not what I said at all. And I call you disaster magnet, by the way, 'cause that's just what you are." At this point he was doubled over in laughter.
Suddenly, without warning, the impact of a poorly placed punch struck Falco in the side of the face, knocking him flat on the floor. It was more from the shock that he fell than from the pain, but he still sat rubbing his face, staring at his assailant. He'd been on the receiving end of much stronger blows in the past, but rarely from a friend or team mate, and for a moment, both he and Slippy were at a loss.
His eyes narrowed as he stood up, never leaving Slippy's now apprehensive gaze. Falco grabbed him by the collar with both wings, roughly lifted him off the ground, and shook him once before drawing him close and snarling, "If you ever hit me again, I'll see to it that I never save your sorry ass in battle ever again. Team mates in name only. Got that?"
With that, he released his grip on the trembling Slippy, who dropped with a thud to the floor, then walked emotionlessly away. Not a hint of expression had crossed his face throughout the whole ordeal, unlike his companion.
Slippy stayed as he'd been left a good while, stunned, before Peppy came in to see why he hadn't given a progress report on maintenance. He jogged gingerly towards Slippy, calling to him, "Can ya hear me alright, Slip?" but received silence his only answer.
"Slippy! What're you doin on the dang floor?" He trotted up to Slippy and knelt down. "My, whatever's gotten into you has got you good! D'ya need a break?"
"Falco, he… we had a fight…" Slippy started with some trepidation. Then, more decisively, he uttered, "I hate him."
The words were as an upturned jug of vitriol on Peppy's ears. "Slippy!" The rabbit hissed, his whiskers crinkling. He felt an upcoming turn as moderator of the younger pilots' petty squabbles fast approaching. It often fell to him to act as the voice of reason, but sometimes he too lost his seemingly infinite patience when the younger men acted so juvenile. He had gained the wisdom first-hand that camaraderie should not be compromised by frivolous qualms… lest it be the last time you set out as a team.
"You really oughtn't say such things! I'll have a talk with him later, but right now I wanna know what happened in here."
Peppy had a way of tempering the flare-ups of others with a wisely placed word, but this time, Slippy wouldn't have it.
"You obviously think I was responsible, if you're not even going to bother with him! Just leave me alone, old-timer. I don't need him, and I don't need patronizing from the likes of you." Slippy sprung to his feet and flitted away towards his quarters.
"Oh dear, what'll I do…" Peppy grumbled under his breath. "Where is that wily fox when you need him?"
Fox, however, was nowhere to be seen – he lingered by the docking bay, polishing the sheen on his Arwing, as he had been all morning. He contemplated the dents and scratches that he adamantly refused ever be pounded out, recalling in which dogfight, or which high-speed pursuit, or which claustrophobic corridor each one had come to be. His ship was his visual memoir, telling the tale of his fledgling beginnings to his inauguration as team captain and everything in between.
He looked at his reflection in the freshly-polished alloy. He remembered when his father had shown him his old Arwing, when he had hoisted Fox into the seat because he'd been too small to climb in himself. He remembered his tiny reflection at that age staring back at him, saucer-eyed in wonderment, from the cobalt wings, how it had seemed to new and wonderful to him then… and then claimed his father's life.
No, it hadn't been the Arwing that was to blame, as Pigma's betrayal had been the instrument of the original team's disbandment and James McCloud's demise. But whenever he climbed aboard his ship, Fox felt a tinge of terror and sadness shoot through him, doubt seizing his will and bidding him urgently to escape. The others didn't know it, but that's why he was always last to launch – he had to assuage his personal demons till his hands would grip the controls. He had learned the day his father never returned that the Arwing was not just a war machine, but a comrade-in-arms, one to be feared and respected, but also trusted if one was going to accomplish his duty. Trusted as a lifeline to the last, when it could be one's salvation, or their coffin…
Before he could finish the thought, a clattering of falling tools rocketed him out of his reverie. Slippy had thrown off his tool belt, sending its contents careering down the halls. He burst through the far end of the hangar's main gate, his mind whirring madly with deep resentments, and paid his onlooker no heed as he marched up to his Arwing, popped open the roof, and slid inside.
Fox, still collecting his wits about him, watched the scene unfold a moment in stunned silence, then, with mounting alarm, realized the possible implications should he not interfere. In one fluid motion, he slid into the seat of his Arwing, jabbed the button that would open a communications channel with Slippy, and spoke hurriedly into the microphone.
"Slippy! Slippy, do you read? What do you think you're doing? Slippy!"
His only answer the static hiss of empty airwaves, Fox propelled himself over the side of his ship with one hand and landed running. He made for the air lock as the G-Diffuser system of Slippy's Arwing rumbled to life and swathed everything in the darkened hangar in its red-blue glow.
Fumbling feverishly with the controls to engage the lock, Fox squinted through the shadows at the emergency panel's obscured labels, on each attempt casting a panicked glance at the wall-mounted indicator light to see if it had changed from green to red. Once, twice, a third time he tried, to no avail. Finally, the warning sirens began to wail, and a voice over the intercom rang out its own words of warning:
"Scramble, scramble… launch sequence initiated, evacuate immediately. Scramble, scramble…"
Fox abandoned his plight for the safety of the neighbouring safe room before the room would be depressurized. He could only watch helplessly as the door automatically opened and Slippy, his eyes transfixed and unable to see Fox looking at him, sped out and into the void beyond.