Slippy stepped out into the bitter cold, his meagre vest transformed into a scarf, his ballcap pulled down to shield his face from the elements. He marched into the wind with great difficulty, searching for a hatch that would open onto the stairwell leading down into the facility. The markings painted on the tarmac were revealed here and there by the shifting snow, and Slippy squinted to see them as the glacial air stung his eyes.

He stumbled around a long time, following the arrows around in circles, before he noticed a latch poking out from beneath the powdery cover. Eyes locked onto his target, he bolted in its direction. The handle that raised the latch was not long to follow in revealing itself, and with one shivering, cold-numbed hand, Slippy grasped the frigid metal.

Thankfully, the hatch yielded to his cold-enfeebled tugging with little resistance, and, once cracked open just enough to slip through, Slippy clamoured eagerly into the stairwell, hatch slamming shut behind him and plunging him into darkness.

"AHHH!" He shrieked at the sudden sound and accompanying blindness, which, as he had just come from a prolonged stint in the brilliance of winter's glare, would be lamentably long to subside . It would be very difficult to navigate unfamiliar stairs in such complete obscurity, but since he had failed to supply himself with a torch of any sort aboard the Arwing, it was his only choice. Slippy sensed his panic arising as a grimace on his face.

"Oooh, why me!" went his lament down the echoing hall. After a moment's unrest, he closed his eyes and considered the nature of his situation, concentrating deeply on the relative safety that surely would be his on this leg of his voyage.

I'm inside and alone. Just what I wanted so I could think this mess through. Or wait it out till someone comes looking for me. Yeah, it'll all be fine.

He succeeded in quelling his fears into something of a begrudging gratitude, and the grimace faded from his face.

Using the wall as a guide, Slippy shifted his weight carefully from step to step as he made his way down the stairs, counting the steps all the while - five, ten, fifteen, twenty-five... it helped pass the time for his methodical mind. Quickening his rhythm as he went, he found himself feeling quite pleased with his progress, and before he knew it, he'd reached the bottom - a hundred steps below the launch pad.

He frisked the walls for a means of escaping his dark prison. They were all sheer - the door had to be a push door that would open outward. He leaned his weight on each of the walls in turn in the hopes that one would part before him. It wasn't to his right, nor in front... and so, with a mighty heave, he burst through the door to his left and stumbled onto the warehouse floor, floodlights dimly delineating his surroundings.

Jumbled behind counters were parts that his discerning mechanic's eye could determine were slated for repair, and stacked on towering shelves were spare parts that had never seen the line of duty. He wandered the aisles, his shoes click-clacking crisply on the cement floor, the dusty air causing him to wheeze a little. Otherwise, it was a paradise of unused supplies for the desperate pilot and his vessel.

It wasn't terribly warmer inside than out, but Slippy could feel the numbness thawing from his hands. He was gingerly plucking items from their resting places, blowing off the thick layer of dust to read the labels, and beginning to have quite a good time in spite of himself.

If only the others could see this place! We could save a lot of time and money on repairs and replacements if we hauled some of this stuff onto Great Fox.

As he said the words, however, they tore at his heart. Even here, he could not help but find reminders of the people from whom he was still running and think fond thoughts of returning to them. How long would he continue this charade of righteous indignation? He had long ago admitted to himself that the jig was up; he wanted to go back, to pretend as though this had never happened and be among his own, but the embarrassment of the ownership he would have to take was the part that kept him running. Could he really ask their forgiveness, and if so, would they so readily bestow it? The only certain thing was that he could not continue without food, water, and shelter forever, and the galaxy held only one place where he had ever known the security of these comforts. He had to try. If only he had some way to contact them, a way that he hadn't purposely severed in his foolishness...

With this new goal in mind, Slippy set about searching the complex. The warehouse was enormous, moreso than it appeared, and walking the distance to the far side of the room left him winded. A door barred his path, requiring a keycard to pass.

"Just a little hitch," Slippy mused aloud, as he inspected the mechanism. With his know-how, he could gain access with minimal effort, and so he did. Feeling quite pleased his resourcefulness, Slippy was eager to rejoin Star Fox with newly inspired confidence. The time he'd spent alone had taught him a great deal, and for the first time, he felt ready to face anything that the enemies of Star Fox could throw at him.

Having hacked the computer's memory, recovered the passcode of the last person to have used the door and punched it in on the keypad, Slippy's success was indicated by a green light now shining from the panel. The door whisked open, and Slippy walked triumphantly through. A soothing tone rang out over the intercom, welcoming him... but what came over next chilled him to the core.

"Welcome back, Wolf O'Donnell."