Author's Note: Well, upon seeing what the word count was working up to, I decided to split the conclusion into two chapters. This chapter is Fox's conclusion and Chapter 18 will be Gage's, with an epilogue. As always, thanks for reading and for the reviews. In light of some reviews, I'd like to point out that my fics are sort of a double-edged sword. My primary writing is not here, but rather mainly 3rd person of different genres. has always been sort of my "practice" area where I try new styles or approaches to writing as well as just plain old recreational fun writing like this fic. First person has always been just a fun thing to do that I'd need to really examine if I ever wanted to take it further. But even with recreational writing, I always welcome constructive criticism, so thanks again. But please, please, please don't take my fics like Shattered Past as representation of my writing now ) So without further ado, please enjoy Fox's conclusion -Foxmerc

CHAPTER 17
The Reckoning
Macbeth
1314 hours

There were plenty of people I could have blamed. I could've blamed the entire Cornerian army for not backing me up, or Falco for betraying me, or Pepper for not aiding me more, or Wolf for being a general ass to me, or soda manufacturers for making me sluggish and sugar-high, but ultimately I knew it there was no one to blame. If anyone should've been blamed, it was me. For years, the "good" mercs and "bad" mercs have been at odds, never resorting to more than a few spats of violence here and there. But I hated them. I hated the name they gave mercenaries. I always thought that something should have been done to prevent the threat they posed to people, but I always had something better to do. Now, out of my element – if only the Arwing could fit through hallways – hunkered in a utility closet while an alarm blared and a base full of mercs ran around in search of blood, I knew I was reaping my neglectful karma.

And yet, it didn't bother me. I could envision my father shaking his head and giving me a pleading look even as I thought it, but I was surprisingly relieved that that the battle long in the making was finally at hand. The mercs brought hell down upon me, and I came to return the favor.

I flattened my back against the wall in the dark closet and rested my head against my rifle barrel. The cold metal cooled my sweating forehead. Footsteps still pounded the corridor outside like a hurricane. Falco and Andrea had apparently made a big bang somewhere. When they finally subsided, I shouldered my rifle and slipped into the bright corridor. The merc base was designed with a military fashion – metal above, below, and to the sides, alarms and fire extinguishers every ten or so meters, bright lights, and lots of security measures…a warm, cozy home for any nut like Torqinski. It made the Great Fox look like a floating rustic cottage.

Each door was locked by a magnetic keycard swipe. Luckily, the Wraiths keep their guys well equipped and I snagged a key from one of the mercs that Falco downed. I ran my mission one more time through my head: sabotage the generator in this wing, six mercenary leaders to kill in the process, a lot of lackeys to wade through. I remembered the most important lesson about firearms I ever learned: a calm, steady shooter will always defeat a fast, reckless one. I steadied my nerves with a few deep breaths and moved down the corridor.

I got the drop on a group of Arcothans moving the other way and dropped all three before they could get a shot off. The first of many deafening shots echoed off the bare walls. Unfortunately, they stirred the hornets' nest. Mercs of every allegiance turned the far corner and fired at me. Normally, I'd kiss the deck behind the first bit of cover I could find, but this time I felt something else. Call it fearlessness brought on by stress, call it divine intervention, call it the "zone"…but whatever made me do it, I knelt, pulled my rifle hard against my shoulder, lined up my sights while lasers singed my fur and threatened to make spray paint of my brain, and fired the most perfect shots I'd ever managed to shoot. The "zone" was a bit more sinister than it first seemed, though. When my rifle clicked on empty and a few enemies still remained, I didn't reload. I dropped my rifle and stood, spittle seeping through my fritted teeth. I only saw red. I pulled my two pistols from their holsters and fired as I half-jogged towards them. They backpedaled, if only from the shock of my insane charge. When my pistols clicked, I dropped them as well, broke into a sprint, and pulled my combat knife from its sheath. I never received knife training – not much use for a knife in an Arwing unless you had to loosen a screw – but it seemed pretty straightforward: stick the sharp end in the enemy. I smacked away the first merc's gun and shoved the knife up into his chest. I kicked the one remaining (and very scared) merc into the wall and struck so hard that the knife went through his throat and embedded itself into the metal wall. I tugged until it was free and let the merc slump to the ground.

The haze lifted. I looked at the carnage around me: scorch marks, blood, over a dozen dead mercs…and me, my chest rising and falling with strained breath. With a tinge of fear, I realized that I wasn't affected by any benign "zone." The rage that had boiled in my blood had taken control over my body. I was driven by the needful desire to wipe these chunks of living shit from the galaxy, even if it cost me my life. Hands shaking from the effects of rage and adrenaline, I gathered my weapons, reloaded them, and checked the dead. Just lackeys, of course. The officers would be holed up.

I couldn't stop to think. Rifle again at the ready, I continued to the elevator. The next few skirmishes went more to plan: short, controlled firing and no suicide rushes. I finally reached the elevator, but five mercs – two Curse and three Icestorm – guarded it. They were ready for me and pinned me behind the corner. I stuck my rifle around for some blindfire but it had little effect. With a grimace, I unhooked a grenade from my vest. I always hated grenades; ever since I first used one, I always had a fear that mine would malfunction and blow in my hand. I popped the top, pushed the button, and gave a nice sidearm throw around the corner…and glanced around just long enough to watch it smack into the helmet of a ballsy merc two feet away who decided to advance on me. We both blinked as the grenade dropped with a plunk between us, then we both hit the deck practically on top of each other. I felt the explosion, but fortunately not in a bloody, dismembering way. Ears ringing, I recovered quickly and pulled the Icestorm merc to his feet. He tried to fight back, but I tossed his gun away and held him in a tight chokehold. My new hostage kept the other mercs at bay…or, more accurately, it kept the Icestorm mercs at bay. The two Curse fired without a care in the world. Their Icestorm partners didn't approve of that. I let my now-dead shield fall to the floor and stood back while nature took its course. It was just a matter of dropping the one Curse survivor with a single shot like a period to bring the bout to a close.

I inspected the bodies and noticed that the Icestorm mercs had gold lining on their blue uniform lapels. I had done enough digging around researching the mercenary groups to know that only high-up guards had the adornment. I glanced up at the elevator and saw the numbers slowly blinking down from above. I put two and two together: Stefan, leader of Icestorm, was going to be escorted to the hangar on this floor. Stefan was real buddy-buddy with Streck, head of Curse, which meant…

I looked at over the Curse uniform and a grin crept onto my muzzle. Dismissing the gold lining, their high guard uniforms had blood red tassels on the sleeves. I hadn't noticed at first because of the abundant presence of real blood. I looked at the elevator numbers again. There wasn't enough time to move the bodies for a surprise attack and even if there was, I doubted I could find a janitor to mop up the blood. I slung my rifle, pulled out my pistol, and waited right in front of the elevator door.

It chimed pleasantly upon arrival. I noticed a black jaguar first…Stefan. Streck, a wolf I only knew from his file picture, stood beside him, but two other guards stole the spotlight as the most immediate threat. I took advantage of their shock to drop the two guards with two calm shots to the heads. Stefan reached for his pistol, but I pumped five shots into his chest before he could even aim. As he slumped against the elevator wall, Streck fell to his knees, his hands raised, his eyes bugged and wild with fear.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Don't shoot! I'm unarmed. See? I'm unarmed!"

I put a laser into his head and one more into his chest for good measure. The elevator chimed again and the door closed, hiding the four corpses. I reloaded my pistol, holstered it, and muttered to the dead mercenary, "Then you should've armed yourself."

I pushed the call button for the next elevator, which thankfully arrived empty, and hit the sub-basement level button. As it silently slid down, I put my hand to my headset and said, "Icestorm and Curse neutralized."

"Good timing," came Falco's static reply. "We freed and armed the Viper prisoners. Apparently, Tichon of the Bloodhounds, his guards, and pretty much the entire head staff of the Arcothans figured on taking them as hostages before escaping. We just had a goddamn war over here."

"Are the officers dead?"

"Yeah, they're fertilizer. These Viper chicks sure know how to fight."

"Good work. Continue to the generators."

ROB repeated the status over the frequency. "Four targets neutralized. Two targets remain."

The door slid open revealing the dank sub-levels that lacked the pristine military condition of the rest of the base. It reminded me of a giant boiler room like the one in the Academy dormitory so long ago. Worst of all, it was dead silent, not even a string attached to a tin can guarding the entrance. I slowly worked my way through the basement corridors until I reached an out-of-place thick metal security door marked "Generator B1." My keycard popped it right open. The generator, a large cubic machine with enough parts to make my head hurt trying to focus on it, sat at the end of the vast room, emitting a low hum. Someone stood before it, a tiger garbed in leather and bracers, flipping a knife in the air nonchalantly. As I inched forward, I noticed five more shadows against the walls, each holding a sword. I recognized them and their leader, Brigand, right off the bat: The Warriors, perhaps the oddest of the mercenaries. They pillaged space vessels like ancient pirates and used only old melee weapons. From what I'd heard, they were damn good with them. Worst of all, they also used a very secretive type of shielding that the Cornerian military had put into development. Basically, for laymen like me, they stick this little thing on their belt and a polarized field is emitted around them, able to repel up to ten or so energy-based shots. It was the only reason why their little pirate games were ever successful.

I lowered my rifle, no more than fifty feet between us. The weapon was useless anyway.

"I thought you'd come here, McCloud," Brigand said, still twiddling the knife in his hand. "I respect your courage in coming here. I wish to give you the chance to die with honor. Kneel before me and I will make it quick."

"We're mercenaries," I replied. "We don't have the luxury of honor. If you think you have any honor, you're crazier than you look."

"You can't win, McCloud. Your weapons won't affect me and even if they did, I could send this knife into your throat before you could pull the trigger. The Warriors you see before you are all who remain, my personal guard, sworn on their lives to protect me. We are all prepared to die to defeat you, our most worthy adversary ever."

"You think I don't know about your shields?" I let my rifle fall to the ground and unsheathed my knife. "You're not the only ones who know how to use ancient weaponry."

Brigand smiled. "I was hoping for an honorable, fair fight like this."

"I'm not here for honor. I'm here to kill you. Let history decide who the honor belongs to."

"Come then."

I held my knife firmly, our eyes locked. I knew him, I knew his type. He wouldn't throw until I made the first move. I breathed steadily, the hum of the generator the only sound in the crushingly tense room. With a sharp breath, I stepped forward, brought my arm back…and dropped the knife. What happened after that seemed to pass in slow motion. I fell onto my stomach and reached behind me for the holster at the small of my back. Brigand's knife split the air with amazing speed and accuracy, passing between my ears over my head as I fell. I hit the ground, clutched the grip of my old bullet-based pistol, aimed, and fired. I'd forgotten how loud bullet weapons were. The gun kicked with the acrid odor of cordite and Brigand recoiled, blood soaking his shirt. He looked down, surprised, and fell as I fired three more shots. He didn't get back up.

I hopped to my feet and brought my pistol to the ready, but his guards made no move to attack me. They didn't even exchange glances, only looked at their leader with flashes of dismay on their faces. Then, in a gesture that seemed shared by all, they unsheathed daggers from their belts, shoved them into their stomachs, and pulled up. It was painful just to watch. I wondered how a pirate like Brigand earned that kind of devotion, but I let it slide. For the good of us that would give our lives to a just cause, there are others who would give their lives for the opposite.

Whatever. Saved me five bullets.

I hurried to the generator, removed a charge from my back, and set it for remote detonation on the front of the generator. After the task was done, I let out a deep breath and put my hand to my headset. "Brigand of the Warriors is sown. My charge is set."

"Five targets neutralized," ROB confirmed. "One target remains."

"We're approaching the sub-level now," Andrea said, "but we have a problem. Pritchard got away. He's only got a couple of his Wraiths left, but they're heading for the hangar."

"So? ROB can blow him out of the sky."

"We dealt with the Wraiths when I was in Viper. Their ships have scramblers. That's how they got their name, they strike other ships before they even know they're being attacked. They're invisible to radar and can't be locked on to."

"Dammit. ROB, can you manually hit a ship that size?"

"Great Fox main gun intended for capital ships and immobile ground targets. Success unlikely."

I retrieved my rifle and ran for the elevator. Damn if I was going to let the mission go to pieces now. "Stick to your mission. Set your charge and meet back at the landing pad. I'll try to intercept him at the hangar."

"Got it."

The base was in complete chaos. Those mercs that hadn't tried to make a run for it were split up without any semblance of order or discipline. For all they knew, an entire army had attacked the base and they weren't as willing as Brigand to die for the cause. The few mercs that I came across were easy to put down with controlled firing. I sprinted to the west where the trail of Falco and Andrea's carnage was apparent. When I turned the corner leading to the hangar, I heard the whine of an engine starting up and pushed myself harder. I burst into the hangar and hopped to the side as two waiting Wraiths fired at me. Pure luck guided the lasers past me as I returned fire on the fly and dropped them. I had only enough time to glimpse Pritchard's face before the gray medium-fighter ship turned and lined up with the far exit for launch.

"No, dammit! Andrea, can anything take these shields down?"

"Uh…I don't know. Enough damage should short out the shield generator, just like any other fighter. I think."

I had run out of options and that was the only card left. I flicked my rifle to full auto and laid into the ship like there was no tomorrow. The shield shimmered with each hit but didn't drop. I dropped the rifle, pulled out my pistols, and fired until they too were dry. The engine roared and the thrusters flared. In a last desperate attempt, I picked up a rifle from one of the fallen wraiths and fired until my trigger finger ached. As the fighter boosted ahead, blasting me with heat, I saw the spark of a laser connecting with the hull. Hope filling my chest, I got on the comm.

"ROB, a Wraith ship just left the hangar. Can you target it?"

"Affirmative."

I watched as the thick yellow beams rained from heaven, blowing apart the fighter and sending the wreckage to the ground like a ton of bricks.

"Six targets neutralized. Zero remain. Mercenary threat eliminated."

I dropped into a sitting position on the metal ground and caught my breath. I watched the wreckage burn and the smoke rise to the sky. With ROB's words, it was over. The explosions caused by the generators would level the base and bury the remains of the hell that had haunted me since Pepper's first fateful warning what seemed like ages ago.

All I could do now was watch the sky and hope that Gage stopped Torqinski. But for me, it was over. The peace I had longed for and fought for was as sweet as I prayed it would be.

-Chapter 18 coming soon-