Author's Note: I had someone beta and give me their assessment on this project here. Like I keep saying, I know that this is a niche market I'm catering to here. Their assessment was a sort of concern, in that this is very much slice-of-life in a high-energy franchise. Not much reference to space furries flying around in space jets shooting at each other. This is very much a depiction of our favorite SF couple as a normal family after their retirement as they focus on weekly dinner dates, raising Marcus, and how to deal with grief. I already have a fic that follows this theme, though... It was not as far-reaching as I would have liked, though I'm okay with that. I hope to reach a few more people with this one, but if not, that's okay too, and I appreciate anyone who takes interest in my mindless Star Fox slice of life garbage lol
~Naza
There was no way we could have seen him, the boy on the overpass.
We'd driven this route on the Cornelius J. Pepper Turnpike numerous times; on our way to and from work; to visit friends; to outings. We'd even survived a really bad car accident a little while ago along the stretch of highway while on the way to the beach with Marcus-that time without so much as a scratch.
It was getting late after our night out. Krystal had stretched out in the passenger seat, reclining it and propping her feet on the dashboard like an ottoman, getting comfortable to catch some Z's along the way back home. We didn't expect anything out of the ordinary when we passed under the overpass for District Corridor No. 114 in Lago Palamino.
It was early November that year, Marcus had started first grade at the beginning of the school semester, and Krystal had just graduated college at the end of the past summer. She'd been working and volunteering for nonprofit organizations after class on the weekdays, and we spent our weekends together with Marcus.
It was a day off for the boy on the overpass, too, but from New Horizons Junior High School. He was in the seventh grade, in a building of nearly four thousand pupils, where, for the first time, he had a locker he had to find between classes, and more homework than ever. He lived in a cramped apartment near The District of Administration, just a ten minute walk from the No. 114 overpass.
After our date night, we hadn't anything planned. I wanted to get laid, but of course Krystal was tired, and I didn't want to impose. She'd spend the week volunteering, and although I said it was okay for her to pass it up, she insisted that we go on our weekly date night this week, since she hadn't spent as much time with me as we'd both liked. She was diligent: she wanted to get a master's degree in clinical mental health counseling and become a psychologist.
She would join a field at a time when the number of people hospitalized for thinking of or attempting to end their own lives has more than tripled in the past fifteen years, especially for kids under their teen years. The boy on the bridge was just twelve years old.
What led him to that point would always be a mystery to me, even after police and prosecutors came to their verdicts. There was no fence on the part of the overpass he'd reached. There was no pedestrian footpath on that bridge, just a paved shoulder that was dangerous for pedestrians, as cars sped past at upwards of one hundred kilometers per hour, and a K-rail that overlooked the speeding highway below. There was absolutely nothing to stop the boy from mounting it.
And nothing to keep him from making that leap - just as our car reached the spot below.
An hour later, everyone we knew would be speeding down that same highway, too, desperate to reach Genesis Healthcare of Corneria City. Krystal is the love of my life, the mother of my son, my blue-furred, green-eyed vixen, who wasn't afraid to hop in an Arwing and join a dogfight (but somehow was terrified of horror movies), who made Spaghetti Marinara with ground chicken instead of beef to be a little more health conscious, who volunteered with veterans who directed their misplaced anger issues at her but still came home talking about how much she loved helping them.
It was supposedly an accident, which, to me, didn't seem like the right word for it at all. At the hospital, the twelve-year-old boy was being treated for life-threatening injuries in the emergency room.
In another room, I was uninjured, and I pleaded with a police officer for information about my wife, my love, my soulmate.
"What's going on? Is she alright?" I asked. "Just tell me she is breathing. Just tell me anything."
I couldn't explain what happened. We'd been on the highway, about to emerge from beneath the overpass. It seemed as if I had blinked, closing my eyes for just a fraction of a second, and when I opened them, everything was completely wrong.
Our new Kraftwagen Mundus was like a cabriolet. The wind was in my face, glass from the windshield was everywhere. The roof of our car was peeled back like a sardine can. The top half of the steering wheel was sheared off, and I don't know how whatever hit it had missed me.
Next to me, the passenger seat was reclined completely back, farther than it's function would allow, with Krystal laying flat, eyes closed, blood leaking out of her mouth, ears, nose. In the captain's chair in the second row, a boy was sprawled, literally upside down, covered in glass and blood. There was a bone sticking out of him where it should not have been. He was staring at me, terrified.
I didn't know whether to tend to the boy or Krystal. Her eyes were closed. I tried to rouse her. Nothing.
Our car, which, right before that moment of impact, had been going 95 kilometers per hour; I'd glanced at the digital speed gauge right before it happened. We were still barrelling down the Turnpike. I'd pulled over, nearly causing another accident, terrified myself.
"Just tell me she is still breathing. Just tell me anything."
The rest happened in a speeding blur. Pushing the driver door open. Waving for help. Strangers telling me to keep calm. An EMT led me to an ambulance. I was put in a waiting room where I was told, "When we can update you, we will let you know." The minutes crawled by excruciatingly slow.
After an hour and a half, I grew infuriated and began to yell. The officer with him sent for another officer, whose job it seemed to be to tell me: "I'm sorry. She has died."
...Some time after the dizziness and the black spots in front of my field of vision, after a wave of nausea or that I would pass out, or both, I was moved into a different room with tiny tables and chairs. A room for children. My phone buzzed.
A text from Peppy: "Falco slippy and I just pulled up. We're coming in now."
A highway patrol officer was talking to one of them. From where I sat, I could see their expressions.
Peppy pursed his lips and looked at the floor.
Slippy grabbed the sides of his head, gaping as if wanting to scream.
Falco just crumbled.
