a/n: Happy 6th Anniversary in North America! Those two terrible friends, H.B. and Frye, are doing their best on a mission in Cauldros. They get stuck with an unfortunate extra teammate.
All the good things belong to Monolith Soft.
The only sound was the crunching of their boots. It had been the only sound for some minutes now. The errant pops and whizzes, the dodged explosions, those had stopped halfway down the slope, although the two of them hadn't slowed their pace from a medal-winning sprint. H.B. considered that maybe it was time to end their extreme flight away from the Ganglion base. The ground infiltration and recon had gone well, the exit less so, but now the danger had passed. He switched to a fast walk, turning to scan the path behind them. No one and nothing was following them.
"I believe we're in the clear," he pronounced. He turned to look at his companion and found empty space. Frye was still pelting down the hill, not having paid the slightest attention to the Pathfinder. H.B. gritted his teeth and raced after Frye. He caught up with him easily and repeated his decision, this time in the form of a shout.
"Heard you the first time," Frye shouted back, still running at full speed. "Don't care."
"I do." H.B. swerved in front of Frye and stopped dead. The maneuver was crude, but so was Frye. H.B. was willing to give it a try.
Frye didn't stop. He made a furious swerve around the smaller man, one that took him directly into the rocks bordering the road. H.B. watched as Frye did a few leaps, then ran horizontally along the wall for a few moments before sliding back to the ground. He kept running, but it was a little slower. A mixture of bounces and turns had added themselves to Frye's stride.
"Too. Many. Nerves," Frye yelled at H.B. with every jump and twist.
"Well, yes, I can see that. But if we race directly into an indigen when we rejoin the lower road, I will blame you for the additional battle."
"Good point," rasped Frye. He still wasn't slowing his pace, but he was swerving back and forth, zinging from one side of the path to the other. This allowed to H.B. walk at a normal speed in the middle of the frenzy. Frye was alternately skidding when he reached the edge with the drop-off and boosting himself for a wall jump on the other side. H.B. wondered if Frye would try a back flip. He would probably land on his face. H.B. found himself looking forward to finding out.
By the time their path flowed into the main road that circled Cauldros' lava pools, Frye had burned off his extra energy. He stopped dead, not even bouncing on his heels, when H.B. lifted a fist as a signal for silence. H.B. took a quick but clear glance at the few indigen snoozing by the side of the road. Usually there would be larger enemies clustered just off the intersection, but a recent downpour must have sent them scurrying. This wasn't a criticism of their fortitude; rain in Cauldros tended to involve flaming sulfurous nuggets. He gestured an all-clear to Frye, who immediately dashed forward with a joyous whoop.
"You are growing more and more like your pet every day," H.B. shouted to his receding back.
"Last one to the skells is a rotten egg," Frye yelled back.
H.B. was not one to resign himself to second place, even after an unfair false start. He slung his shield onto his back and launched himself forward. Frye might have longer legs, but H.B. would always have superior technique and determination. He leaned his torso just a tad forward, enough to make landing on the front of his feet easier, and increased the pace of his stride. Each step came a little faster, a flurry of movement. His arms sliced through the air; he didn't need to check that the angle of his elbows was perfection itself. His chin down, his eyes on the road, H.B. was gaining on Frye by the third step.
The skells appeared around the curve of the road. H.B. locked his gaze on this finish line and never shifted his eyes from them, not even as he passed a surprised Frye. (He had to assume that Frye was surprised, but any regrets about not seeing for himself were ignored in the service of best running form.) He didn't slow, not even by a millimeter or microsecond, until his outstretched hand slapped the side of the closest skell.
He turned triumphantly to watch Frye's arrival. His opponent wasn't slowing down either. In fact, he seemed to be increasing his speed, and he was headed directly toward H.B., a furious expression on his face. Really, thought H.B., there was no call to be such a bad sport about losing a competition. At the same time, he couldn't help but take a nervous step away from the skell. It was Frye's skell, after all. Perhaps Frye had intended that the winner should reach his own skell? Or was he insulted that H.B. had slapped his precious ride? Was...?
At that point, Frye tackled H.B.
Frye's shoulder went squarely into H.B.'s stomach. The force was enough to knock H.B. off his feet, with Frye following along. Both BLADEs were launched into the air, a brief but violent journey. They landed on the gritty pumice in as inelegant a tangle as H.B. had ever suffered. Frye seemed to be simultaneously digging into H.B. with a variety of knees, elbows, and other joints, while also trying to flip himself in whatever direction H.B. wasn't facing as they rolled away.
"What in the five continents..." H.B. said when they came to a stop.
"Gotcha," Frye panted. He lay heaving next to H.B., his face almost as pale as his hair.
H.B. tried to sit up and dust himself off at the same time. He'd barely managed either, and badly at that, when a paw slashed the space where only recently H.B. had been standing. A furry paw tipped with claws like stilettos, H.B. noted. It swiped again, downward. Frye shot up, flinging himself over H.B. and knocking him flat again. Fabric ripped as claws caught the edge of Frye's armor.
Frye nudged H.B. away from the skell, mostly using the method of crawling away while clutching H.B.'s head close to his chest. H.B. waited until they had moved at least two body lengths (and hopefully paw lengths) away from the skell before deftly flipping Frye off of him.
"That's quite enough, I think," said H.B.
They lay on the ground, propped up on their elbows, watching the skell. The paw grabbed at the now empty air. Its owner withdrew it back into the pilot's capsule, with a mix of growls and hisses and one extended flatulent squeak.
"Pee-yoo," Frye said, flapping a hand in front of his nose. "It smells worse than the bad end of a three-day weekend."
"What is a mephite doing in your skell, Frye?" H.B. asked calmly.
Frye was instantly defensive. "Hey, everyone leaves their windows open in Cauldros. If you don't, you end up roasting when you get back in."
"Not everyone," H.B. muttered.
Frye continued. "It probably crawled in there to escape the brimstone rain." He sat up higher. "Hey, bro, what you doing in my seat? Come on, bro," he yelled at the mephite. The beast responded with louder growls and another squeaking puff of noxious gas. Frye grinned down at H.B. "So, how are we gonna convince it to get out?"
H.B. carefully stood up. The skell shook angrily but the paw stayed hidden. "I do not intend to stay here, patiently waiting while your friend decides whether to take a long-term lease on BLADE property. I'm sorry, Frye, but it has to be done." He removed his side weapon.
Before he could take a step, he staggered. Frye was clinging to H.B's knees. His face lacked its usual humor. "Stop. Those things smell bad enough when they're alive and angry. You don't want to be within a kilometer of them when they're dead and angry."
"Do you have any better ideas?"
"Dunno. Tempt it out with some treats?"
"What exactly do you mean by treats?"
Frye released H.B. and patted the dirt next to him. H.B. settled in a careful crouch. Frye smiled again, scratched at his crew cut, then brightened. "I got it. Skunks love snails, so I bet this dude would go for something like that."
H.B.'s eyes flickered only a moment before he said snidely, "Alas, we are not in Primordia and cannot pick ourselves a basket of ashizels. Perhaps you would like to put in a collections mission with the Curators while we wait?"
"Huh? What? I meant the big thing, like a snail on stilts, the one we passed when we first arrived here."
H.B. goggled at him. "A land gerrid? Are you serious? Those are taller than both our skells, and we only have the one available."
"Naw, I figure we can topple one easily enough."
"That's how they attack their enemies," lectured H.B. "They tip over and grind their attackers into the ground." The twinkle in Frye's eyes made H.B. feel suddenly ridiculous. Of course his friend knew exactly how gerrids defended themselves, their electric attacks, their poisonous excretions. H.B. reviewed all the unpleasant aspects of fighting them. "It might be better to let the Reclaimers come and get your skell later. You can ride home with me."
"Nope. I'm determined." Frye bounced to his feet, dusted off his knees. "Wanna help me get some skunky snacks?"
H.B. looked up at Frye. He noticed the tear faintly visible on the edge of Frye's chest armor. "Very well. Let's do this before the mephite has a litter of kits."
xcxcxcxcxcxcxcx
It hadn't been all that terrible a project, at least until the end. The gerrid had attempted to destroy Frye with a well-place plunging roll, but the attack had placed it in the perfect spot for H.B. to smack it senseless with a largish skell weapon. Using Frye as bait had been a risky gambit, perhaps, but Frye had been enthusiastic about trying it. They had taken the "fragrant" soup of indigen guts, to put it politely, carefully back to Frye's skell. The mess had been nauseating to H.B. but intriguing to the mephite. After they had backed away, the creature had slipped out of the skell and made an eager inspection of the disgusting slime. Frye had closed the windows remotely, and the mephite was denied a return to its high-tech den. It had left eventually, both full and resentful, with a final high pitched toxic squeak.
When Frye popped the latch of his skell, H.B. was hard pressed to maintain his composure. The stench hit them with almost as much force as a gerrid attack. H.B. pinched his nose furiously, words utterly failing him.
"Shoot. No way I can ride that home. I was hoping it wouldn't be too bad but ..." Frye rubbed a weary hand across his face.
"As I previously offered, you can ride with me. We can put your skell into follow mode. Let the Outfitters do their job and find a solution to remove the smell."
"I dunno. I don't really want to drag this in and hand it off to someone else. I kind of like to solve my own problems."
"I hadn't noticed."
"You're the same way. Admit it."
"Perhaps. But it's not like we can wash the capsule out with lava," H.B. pointed out.
Frye perked up. "There's that hot springs next to the Nopon encampment! We can at least slosh some of the water over the upholstery. Give me a chance to wash up too." He sniffed his uniform experimentally and shuddered.
H.B. was continuing to do his best not to smell anything around him. "Yes, that's probably for the best," he agreed.
One hour and a small bucket brigade later, H.B. and Frye were floating lazily in the hot spring. Several Nopon had offered, at a very reasonable price, to carry dripping baskets of water from the pool to the skells. H.B. had passed them up to Frye, who had flooded the capsule to good effect. "Once it dries, I might even be able to stand to fly it home. I'll have to leave the windows open though." He grinned down at H.B. and winked. H.B. had sighed and hired a Nopon to watch the skell while they bathed. He wanted no more uninvited guests.
The sky flickered with flaming clouds, but no fiery rain disturbed them. H.B. wasn't sure if the metallic pong of the water was any better than the musky stench of the mephite, but the warmth was certainly relaxing. His eyes flickered shut. Naturally, Frye chose that moment to jump out of the pool, splashing water in all directions.
H.B. dredged his glasses out of the pool, shook the extra water out of his ears, and glared at his friend. Frye was rummaging through the pockets of his gear. "Aw man," he said finally, "I forgot all about it and now, well, take a look." He held a misshapen and dripping object. It appeared to be melting as well.
"What is that?"
"A candy cane. Peppermint. Happy season, dude."
H.B. gave a short laugh. "Lob it into the water, Frye. It can't make us smell any worse."
a/n: New review for Xenoblade X: 7.25/10, too much water, will also possess your soul.
z39b20co13mi01cal09 (aka Comical, aka Tatsu/Lin theme) on loop to get me through the last bit.
Happy 6th anniversary to the game I really do love most of all.