The fifty red bull's-eyes anchored to the dry, brown earth of the practice range were tough to hit even under ideal circumstances. Each was barely two meters in diameter, much smaller than the smallest silhouette any potential target would ever offer, save individual ground troops. Unfortunately for Fox, these were about as far from ideal circumstances as he could possibly imagine. Moving into his eighth grueling hour at the prototype's controls, he could feel his reflexes beginning to dull as he lined up for another pass. To be sure, the young pilot wasn't having second thoughts about his assignment. Frankly, he loved the Arwing so much he could have slept in the saddle, but what was that old saying again…too much of a good thing? At this point, he would have almost traded his wings of gold for a hot meal and a break…almost.
"Echo One commencing firing run," the vulpine spoke mechanically into the comm. He'd said those words so many times today that he'd lost track. No matter…this time would be different. This time he'd register enough hits to satisfy even his CO's unreasonably stringent requirements. Then again, how often had he imagined that in the last couple of hours? He was miles downrange, too far away to see the husky, but he had no doubt that Kaminski could see him. As usual, the base commander stood in the center of the large observation deck, flanked by his two ever-present lieutenants who recorded the accuracy of each attack. Thus freed from the burden of tallying results, the captain could divert his undivided attention to scrutinizing the minute details of each and every approach, and scrutinize he did. The thin, transparent eyepiece affixed to the side of his head was more than just an odd pair of glasses. Through it, the canine saw all, his enhanced vision easily tracking the craft's position as well as the series of holographic rings marking the requested approach vector.
Fox felt his pulse quicken as the Arwing streaked toward the first nav ring. He gripped the controls firmly, blanking his mind of all unnecessary thoughts and distractions, of which he could permit none. The outside world, the base, Kaminski standing on his platform…all such irrelevant matters faded away until only the hollow, silver disks remained. An audio cue from the fighter's computer pricked his ears beneath his helmet as he mentally counted off the last few seconds…and then all at once, they were upon him!
The rings were everywhere, scarcely a second apart with their apertures pointing in all directions. Left! Right! Left again! Two above! One below! There were so many of them, coming thick and fast like a hail of bullets. There was no time for indecision, no time to think! If he did that, he'd miss a ring, and he could not allow himself to stray from the course! He was flying purely on instinct now, pilot and craft becoming one, merging into a single, living, breathing animal. Gut reaction was the only rule.
"Eeeeyuuuhh!" He drew a sharp breath, feeling a bit lightheaded as he pulled into an unusually steep climb, passing through the final set of loops at full throttle. It would not be long now. "Huuugh!" His neck muscles tensed as he desperately fought to keep the blood from rushing down into his shoes. No, he couldn't black out…not now! He had to be awake and alert in order to line up with the ground targets. A high-pitched tone from the computer sounded, indicating he had cleared the last ring. That was his signal! Rolling the fighter onto its back and pulling up on the stick, he swiftly aligned the HUD crosshairs on the tiny disks below and squeezed the trigger. Angry green blaster bolts erupted from the craft's nose cannon, slamming into the hardened shields that hugged the surface and causing them to flare briefly with an aquamarine brilliance. Strange…somehow Fox couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed with the short flashes. Without protection, the Arwing's primary armament would have vaporized the adamantium shells and left the field pockmarked with deep craters where they once stood. That would have been truly satisfying. Plunging another thousand feet, he let loose a second salvo, striking the next series of targets without a hitch. Nearly every round found its mark as he skimmed just above treetop level.
"So far so good," Fox thought. He was almost home. Dim green boxes were already appearing around the final series on his targeting visor. Now, if he could just get the proper angle. "What the—" A proximity alarm jerked his head to the side. "More navigation rings!" There were two to be exact, virtually at right angles and nearly touching each other. Where had they come from? "Shit," he cursed under his breath. Even with the prototype's incredibly tight turning radius, it would be extremely difficult to take them both, and even if he did manage it, the exit vector would practically force him to miss half the remaining dummies. Nevertheless, he had to give it a try. "Huuuoooooooooooooooooh!" With a war cry that could have awakened the dead, he dipped his left wing and yanked back on the stick as far as it could possibly go, closing the throttle almost entirely. The raptor shuddered in protest, its wings tracing sharp contrails on either side while the crushing weight of inertia sought to press him flatter than a sheet of paper. It was nearly unbearable, but somehow through the deepening shadows that obscured his vision, he was vaguely aware of the nose arcing through one ring, but the other…what about the other? No, he wasn't going to make it. He was too far off center! Not enough of the Arwing would cut the cross section to register a clean pass…or would it? "Just…..a little…..more," he grunted, trying with all his might to yaw just one more inch of the craft through the disk. The seconds ticked by like hours; until at last the sharp tone told him he'd tipped the scale in his favor, but there was no time to celebrate this small victory. With his head still swimming, he brought his guns to bear on what targets he could still reach and strafed for all he was worth. The question was…would it be sufficient?
"End run," called one of the lieutenants over the comm. system.
Fox gasped, breathing heavily as he pulled up into a gentle right bank, circling slowly overhead while his CO's subordinates furiously entered results into their data pads below. He raised his visor and mopped the sweat from his brow with his right glove, feeling dizzy and completely worn out. It just didn't make sense. Why hadn't those last two rings shown up on sensors until he was almost right on top of them? He knew the testing program was sophisticated, but it had never hidden any sections of its randomly generated flight paths since day one. Something like that was too calculating—too devious to be part of the AI's bag of tricks. It was almost like someone on the ground wanted him to screw up.
"Final results for Run 96," came the other lieutenant's voice over the radio. "Course clear time five minutes seventeen seconds, no navigation rings missed, and five hundred thirty-two rounds fired. Adjusted total accuracy 90."
"All right! Am I good or am I good!" Fox thought with a pleased grin. Unbelievable! That was the best showing he'd had all day, despite the last second curve ball. Even the worst critic couldn't argue with those numbers. If he hurried, he could even catch a late lunch at the mess hall if the debriefing wasn't long winded.
"Not good enough!" Kaminski's remark stung like a cowhide whip. "Let's give it another go from the top!" Fox could hardly believe what he was hearing.
"Sir!"
"You heard me ensign," the base commander said coldly.
"Sir, with all due respect—" Fox began.
"You were too slow, your approach angle was three degrees too steep, your turning was sloppy, and you failed to destroy all of the targets. Do it over kid!"
"Captain—"
"I won't tell you again McCloud," the canine's voice rose ominously. "We're burning daylight here. Let's move!"
What was it with this guy?
-----------------------------
Kaminski took his time pouring over the data pad before him, occasionally tapping its screen to scroll through another page of hit percentages. Fox, who found himself once again standing rigidly at attention like a first year plebe, was ignored as if he was just another piece of furniture, collecting dust in the center of the now distasteful office. He was surprised there wasn't a groove in the floor by now, an outline of two heels that always clicked together over that same spot day after day. At last, the husky raised his head with a mirthless smile. "I suppose you think I'm being unfair," he said as he tossed the report down on his desk and began to pace.
Fox's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. He knew better than to answer this late in the game.
"You're also thinking that I'm obsessing over details…that I'm being a perfectionist," Kaminski continued, circling around to stand over the young pilot's right shoulder. "I hate to admit it kid, but you're probably right." The base commander frowned, resuming his slow waltz across the wooden floor. "To you this Arwing is just some sort of hotrod for you to fool around with as you please." He whirled about, staring the vulpine squarely in the eye, "But it's so much more than that! This project was conceived when you were still in diapers as an effort to produce a single fighter that could do the work of an entire squadron. It has taken years of work, the dedication and perseverance of thousands of scientists and engineers, and hundreds of billions of sanpon to bring it to fruition today, and I cannot emphasize enough how vitally important it is to the security of the Lylat System and the Cornerian people." The canine turned his back to glance out at the sunset through the large window. "Kid, there are pilots out there who have waited their entire careers for an assignment such as yours to come along. Such an opportunity is not bestowed lightly. Were I in your position, I would not allow myself to trivialize these shakedown tests as you seem to do."
Fox clenched his teeth, both hurt and infuriated, as he stood motionless. Trivial? Trivial! Was it not enough that he had spent an entire day in that cockpit? Was it not enough that he had performed every task set before him, no matter how demanding or questionable it appeared? Was it not enough that he was pushing his body to the breaking point to put the craft through its paces? Was this his commanding officer's idea of trivial? It took every ounce of discipline and training that he had ever received to swallow his pride in the face of such vicious, unwarranted criticism and bear it in silence.
"Take Run Thirty-Seven for example," Kaminski barked, swiping the pad with a wave of his hand. "You call this an attack? A grade-schooler throwing spitballs could do better!"
"I was recovering from a nine G turn," Fox replied, struggling to keep his voice from rising. "By the time I got my bearings, half the targets were too close for—"
"Excuses!" Kaminski snapped. "And what about this approach on Run Eighty? You missed twelve rings!"
"Out of two hundred twenty-five," Fox protested. "Sir, that's only five percent—"
"More excuses!" The veteran pilot thundered. "And I'm still not satisfied with Run Ninety-Six. That last series was right under your nose! What do you have to say for yourself!"
Fox inhaled sharply, almost trembling with rage. His self-control was in tatters, threatening to disintegrate at any second. "Permission to speak freely sir," he seethed, practically spitting each word as it rolled off his tongue. If only this guy wasn't his commanding officer…
Kaminski furrowed his brows, the flickering of distant lightning seeming to dance behind his eyes. "Granted," he replied, leaning back against the edge of his desk with folded arms. "I'm all ears."
"Sir, my performance on the course today was right on!"
"Is that so," the base commander scoffed.
"Damn straight!" Fox exploded. "You want accuracy sir? By your own staff's most optimistic calculations, a seventy-five to eighty-two percent rating was the best we could hope for in this simulation. I exceeded those limits seven times!"
"Was that supposed to impress me," Kaminski sneered derisively. "I was in a cockpit beating the odds while you were still in preschool learning how to count to ten!"
Fox's fur bristled in indignation. "That's not the point," he fired back.
"No it's not." Kaminski's muzzle wrinkled in disgust. "You just don't get it do you kid?
The point is, this isn't the academy anymore, and you treating this assignment like just another hop in the Corneria City flight range is beginning to wear out my patience!" He rose and turned his back, his form dark and ominous against the crimson skies. "What I need, is a real pilot."
Fox snarled, slamming one fist down on the desk with a loud bang. "Just what the hell is that supposed to mean!"
Kaminski glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cold. After a long moment, he moved behind his desk, leaning forward to put himself nose-to-nose with the young airman. "You might find this hard to believe, but I taught at the academy for close to ten years. You think you're talented? I've seen dozens of kids like you graduate at the top of their class and not last thirty seconds in a real dogfight. You think you got yourself into this outfit because of your record? The only reason I tolerate you is because you were rammed down my throat by the head of the Joint System Chiefs. You're green kid—green as a tree frog! Your record means nothing to me!"
Fox drew himself up to his full height. "Sir, I don't give a damn if you're impressed with my record or not. Frankly, I don't think I could impress you." Perhaps he had entertained such thoughts in the beginning, hopes that had been quickly dashed in the span of a week. "But captain," he growled, eyes smoldering in anger like burning coals, "I have never taken my position here for granted, and I assure you—I have never, ever viewed a single one of my duties as trivial!"
"Then prove it to me with clean flying," the husky retorted, apparently unmoved.
"Sir, if you want those runs any cleaner, you'll need a machine! No pilot ever made could measure up to the standards you've expected of me lately!"
"Oh ho, so I'm expecting too much of you am I?"
Shit! Fox winced internally, realizing he'd said too much. Another proverb from his primary school years crossed his mind. "The words you say are like little birds," his third grade teacher had told him. "Once they are allowed to flutter out of the window, they cannot be taken back again." His slip of the tongue had just given Kaminski a load of ammunition.
"Perhaps I have been expecting too much of you lately," said the base commander. "You know," he murmured, fingering one of the aircraft models that sat near his name placard. "If the Arwing is too much for you to handle, I could always put you back in a Corneria Fighter."
"Just like General Pepper," thought Fox. "Only he's not joking."
"Or something less demanding perhaps?" Kaminski leaned forward again, "Say…a cargo shuttle making the Papetoon run?" He almost seemed to be enjoying himself. "Is that what you want?"
Checkmate. Fox couldn't believe he had been so stupid. Losing this war of words was bad enough, but to be beaten over the head with his own argument—that was worse. He drew a slow breath, lungs filling as if to yell at the top of his voice, but instead, only two bitter words left his muzzle. "No…sir."
"Good," Kaminski quipped. "I'm glad we were able to straighten that out. You will continue as an Arwing test pilot, and I will expect your performance on the final hop Friday afternoon to be significantly better. Do we understand each other?"
"Perfectly sir," the pilot replied.
"Dismissed!"
Fox clicked his heels together smartly, his mouth a tight line as he left behind the hateful room. It was not until he was safely out of earshot that he slammed one fist into a lonely vending machine, hardly feeling it at all.
"Warning, attempts to obtain product without first presenting the proper credits will be unsuccessful and may result in bodily injury," a pre-recorded voice protested from a small speaker beside the touch panel.
"Go to hell," he grumbled. The mess hall was closed by now, but he had somehow lost his appetite. What he needed was a stiff drink, something the machine was unlikely to have in its inventory of recipes. It was time to take a little walk.
----------------------
"Well howdy there Fox!" Mike, the owner of the North Star Cantina, nodded with a smile. "Good to see you! Heh, you're practically a regular now by the looks of it."
"Uh-huh," Fox replied half-heartedly. "I suppose you could say that." Of the three establishments in this sleepy little town, he frequented this rundown bar most of all—not for the fact that it was only a twenty-minute walk from the base, nor was it for the drinks. It was the indefatigable spirit and unflagging morale of the middle aged proprietor that kept bringing him back time and time again. No matter how bad things on the flight line got during the week, Mike always managed to coax at least a small smile out of him before he left.
"Whoa, why the long face pal," queried the Labrador. "You look like you got hit by the cement truck. That captain of yours giving you a rough time again?"
"How'd you guess," Fox muttered dryly.
"Oh, just a feeling," the canine quipped. "That, and you look about as ragged as I've ever seen you."
"Yeah, well…after twelve straight hours in a cockpit without a break, I'm not surprised." Fox cleared his throat, running one hand through his matted head fur.
"Ouch!" The black dog winced. "I think I have something that'll fix you right up though." Reaching behind the counter, Mike soon produced an old tin mug and a bottle of frothing brown liquid. "On the house buddy," he said sympathetically as he filled the container with the odd concoction. "Drink up!"
"Thanks," said Fox, raising his mug to his host with a grateful nod before taking a deep draught. Almost instantly he wished he hadn't. Too late, he realized his error as the liquor turned to burning aviation fuel going down his throat. Tears sprang to his eyes as he clamped his jaws shut and tried with all his might to swallow. "Guuuhh!" He coughed, barely managing to keep it down. "Mike, what is this stuff? You trying to put me out of my misery or something?"
"If you mean six feet under, I have other ways of dispatching unruly customers," Mike chuckled. "Come now! It'll put fur on you chest."
"What am I, a salamander?" Fox smirked, bracing himself as he took another fiery gulp.
"'Course you aren't," Mike grinned. "Son, I've been running this place for close to forty years now. I've seen a lot of hotshots sit at my bar, and under the circumstances, I'd say you're handling yourself better than most. Just don't let your commander get to you."
"Oh, he's gotten to me all right," Fox scoffed. "It doesn't matter how clean I fly. I just can't seem to do anything right in his book. Frankly, it'd make a saint lose his temper." He tilted his cup back as if to accentuate his point, finishing off his drink with a grimace. "But I didn't say I was giving up."
"That's the spirit!" Mike nodded. "No one can ask more of a man than his best. Just give it all you've got, and no matter how things turn out, you'll have no regrets. That's my two bits."
"True," agreed Fox. "Maybe I won't have any regrets, but neither will my CO when he ends my career." He could recall Kaminski threatening to ground him permanently on more than one occasion, to strip him of his assignment and anchor him firmly to the tarmac for the remainder of his tour of duty, something he knew to be insufferable. His gaze shifted downward, drawn to the gold pin adorning his flight jacket, a great eagle clutching a starburst in its outstretched talons. Of all the capable personnel who formed the ranks of the Cornerian air arm, only the proud few who managed to survive the academy's rigorous star fighter program were allowed the privilege of wearing it, and none among them took the honor lightly.
"Well, I'm off to school Dad. See you later!"
"Whoa, not so fast Junior!" James McCloud looked up from his newspaper pad at his young son. As usual, the kit's navy blue windbreaker was flung haphazardly across his shoulders, and his book bag dangled by only one strap, a bit of last minute homework protruding from a hurriedly closed zipper. "Aren't you just a tad heavier this morning," the veteran pilot remarked.
"Uh…" Fox paused nervously. "Yeah, I guess I ate another bowl of cereal didn't I? Well, gotta catch the bus—"
"Fox." James's voice wasn't angry, but its tone commanded obedience. Bus or no bus, the younger McCloud stopped dead in his tracks, looking down at his sneakers.
"Yes sir."
"I noticed something was missing from my uniform this morning," said James. "You wouldn't happen to know where it is would you?"
Fox raised his head to look at his father. "Yes sir." He reached into his pocket and placed the gold pin on the table in front of him.
James sighed softly. "Fox, I know I sometimes let you wear my wings around the house, but you're not to take them to school with you. You've already been told more than once."
"I know." The kit's ears drooped sideways. "But Dad, I'm not hurting anything right? Chris wears his dad's watch all the time, and these are way better than a watch!"
"I'm glad you see it that way." James mused for a moment, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was 0708. There was still time. "Sit down Junior," he said, motioning to the empty chair across the kitchen table.
Fox obeyed, dropping his load with a dull thump next to his seat.
James undid the band on his wrist chronometer and slipped off the timepiece, placing it next to the golden eagle. It was a simple model, containing a 2D display, navigation unit, smart credit chip, and short-range comm. system. One could easily be purchased from a drugstore for ten to twenty sanpon. "Fox, what makes these wings special to you," the elder McCloud inquired. "Why do you wear them?"
Fox thought for a moment. "Because you wear them. You're a star fighter pilot, and I'm gonna be one too someday." He grinned. "All pilots wear their wings."
James shook his head. "Not these wings Junior. These wings are very special." He drank another swallow of lukewarm coffee, remembering how hard he had worked for that small piece of metal. "Most ordinary people wear watches, much like yours, mine, and even Chris's dad's. I'd say almost everyone in the system has one or two. Do you remember how many people live in our star system?"
"Close to thirty billion," Fox answered. "I think. We did planet populations in social studies last year."
"Thirty billion," James repeated. "That's a really big number isn't it? I'd say that makes watches pretty common." He scratched his chin. "Here's a tougher one. How many pilots are in the Cornerian Defense Forces?"
"Uhhhhmmm…" Fox's eyes rolled up as his mind searched desperately for an answer. "A million?"
"Closer to three hundred thousand," James corrected him. "Just a drop in the bucket comparatively speaking, and the vast majority aren't star fighter pilots."
"They aren't?" Fox blinked, tilting his head slightly.
"No, they aren't," said James. "Most are assigned to planetary defense squadrons. They fly shorter-range craft, receive less training, and you rarely see them doing anything but flying combat air patrol over their bases. They wear smaller wings of silver." He picked up the golden eagle, turning it over in his palm thoughtfully. "The few pilots who wear the starburst insignia are carefully selected and sent to the academy at Cape Henderson. Once there, they are pushed to the absolute limits of mind and body. They attend classes six days a week, spend thousands upon thousands of hours in holosimulators, and thousands upon thousands more in real star fighters. Outside the cockpit, everyone receives small arms and hand-to-hand combat training, and they do a six-week survival course so they can stay alive if the unthinkable happens. Then, if they manage to make it through to the end, they are given a final test, flying against their own instructors in an impossible situation. Then, and only then do they receive a passing grade and the right to wear this on their uniforms."
The elder McCloud sighed, his tone becoming less severe as he looked deep into his son's eyes. "Fox, these wings are more than just a decoration. The right to wear the wings of a star fighter pilot is not bestowed lightly. It is not given, but earned by a great deal of toil, sweat, and blood. These wings are a badge of honor, a lasting testament to an academy graduate's strength, courage, and the content of his character. That is why we treasure them…why I treasure them."
Fox was silent as he struggled to come to grips with this knowledge. Head bowed, he fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, under his father's gaze. James scratched his chin, eyeing the kit for a long moment. Had he gotten through to him, or was it like describing the sea to a mountain hermit, who would never comprehend its seemingly infinite vastness unless he experienced it for himself? Of this, he could not be entirely certain. Finally, a light smile tugged at one corner of his muzzle. "I know this is a lot for you to take in," he admitted. "Maybe you're too young to understand it all now, but someday…someday when you've been through hell and high water, earned wings of your own, and you stand among your brothers and sisters on the review ground with those wings pinned to your chest…then you will understand."
"You were right Dad," Fox murmured as he stared at the bottom of the empty tin mug. "I sure as hell understand."
"H-hey, what's the big idea?"
A stuttering, high-pitched voice rose in protest from the opposite end of the canteen, swiveling the vulpine's left ear. Frowning, he turned in search of its owner, his gaze falling on a group of burly canines in a dark corner. They were clustered around a small table, towering over its single nervous occupant, a short, squat figure of a frog wearing a red baseball cap and a dingy coat covered with oil stains.
"Just what I don't need tonight," Mike groaned. "Nick's boys causing trouble at my bar."
"Nick's boys," asked Fox.
"Them three," Mike nodded in disgust. "They're a handful all right…tramping into my place like they own it. They'd pick a fight with you if you even looked at 'em sideways…buncha no good delinquents."
"Charming," the pilot muttered dryly as the meanest of the three swaggered over to stand behind the frightened amphibian.
"Oh I'm sorry froggy," the Doberman leered, his expression anything but apologetic. "Don't mean to be…rude or anything." The exaggerated theatrics elicited an immediate fit of laughter from his two cronies. "But we have ourselves a little problem here…"
"Y-you do?"
"Yeah, you see," the canine gripped the back of the wooden chair, "you're in MY seat."
"B-but I got here f-first," the lone customer protested, glancing to the numerous empty places all around him. "What about over there? That table looks nice—"
"I didn't ask about THAT table," Nick growled dangerously, cutting him short. "Me and my boys want to sit HERE."
Fox exhaled sharply, brows creasing as he observed the rapidly escalating tension in the back of the room. Of course, it was none of his business, but if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was watching a someone harass or bully another. Besides, there were three of them, and Mike was obviously well past his prime. It was doubtful the elderly bartender alone could keep the situation under control. Sliding off his stool, he rose and made his way toward the commotion, stopping at an empty table nearby. "Hey you," he called out, addressing the lead ruffian. "You heard the frog. I believe these seats are open," he said, gesturing to the nearest empty chair.
"And who are you, his mother," jeered one of the Doberman's posse. The other gangsters burst out laughing, but their leader was far from amused. Forgetting all about his previous quarrel, he whirled around and advanced to stand so close that his nose nearly touched the fighter pilot's muzzle. The stench of old tobacco smoke and cheap liquor was nearly overpowering.
"I ain't talking to you smartass," the scruffy canine growled. "This is between him and us. Now you just keep out of this, and maybe I won't knock your teeth out." With a dismissive wave of his hand, he began to turn away.
"Sorry to disappoint you," Fox replied evenly, refusing to be intimidated. "But I believe the rules around here are first come, first served. You'll just have to sit somewhere else."
"Is that so." Nick cracked his knuckles. "In that case, I think I'll start with your ass!"
Fox saw the swing coming. The ruffian's anger and overconfidence signaled his intentions well in advance. Ducking it easily, he caught the Doberman's arm at its greatest extent, and in a single, fluid motion spun him forcefully into an elbow lock, facedown on the nearby table.
"Oooh, temper, temper," chided Fox. "No need to get so worked up over this. That seat is taken; this one is free. It's that simple."
"You little shitfaced—AARGH," Nick protested, flailing as the vulpine increased the pressure on his joints ever so slightly.
"No," Fox asked, maintaining the same infuriating calm. "Well, I guess if none of these other seats will work, you'll just have to find another watering hole."
"Let me go, or I'll kill you," threatened Nick.
"No you won't," countered Fox. "Not if you know what's good for that arm of yours. Now, you can start by telling those two to leave," he said, nodding toward the other thugs, who seemed ready to leap to their leader's defense at any second. He'd have to play this just right.
Nick snarled, making another futile attempt to break free of the vulpine's hold. Another jolt of pain however, convinced him to nod his assent. "Spike, Tony…you guys beat it…"
"No way boss!" Tony protested. "This guy ain't nothin'—"
"Not now!" Nick cut him off, grinding his teeth. "You want him to rip my fucking arm off! Just get outta here!"
The two ruffians looked at each other, then back at Nick. Grudgingly they took their leave, giving both Fox and their intended victim several menacing glances before disappearing out the front door.
"Nice," Fox nodded. That evened things up nicely. "Next, you will promise to let my friend here sit wherever the hell he pleases, and you won't give him any more trouble. Do we understand each other?"
"You can shove it up your a—AARGH—okay, okay…I won't give him no trouble."
"You promise?"
"I PROMISE!"
"Good," Fox grinned, releasing Nick abruptly with a swift kick in the rear. "Glad we were able to discuss this like two civilized adults."
Nick glowered at the combat pilot as he regained his feet. "This ain't over asswipe," he hissed. "Me and my boys are gonna remember this! Next time I see your punk ass around here, I'm gonna beat the living shit out of you! As for you froggy," he snarled, turning to the trembling frog. "You got REAL lucky this time!" With that, he tramped after his comrades, slamming the front door so hard that the entire bar shook.
"I look forward to it," Fox called after him as a parting shot. The sound of a rattling mug however, drew his attention back to the North Star's only other patron, who had apparently decided it was safer to take refuge beneath the hotly contested table. "You okay," he asked, sliding into the unoccupied seat across from the stranger.
"A-are they g-gone?" A pair of widely set eyes cautiously peered over the opposite edge, darting quickly in all directions.
"Yeah, they're gone," Fox replied. "For the moment at least."
"Whew! Thanks a lot," the amphibian croaked, emerging the rest of the way. "I thought I was done for!"
"And I thought I was gonna have a fight on my hands," Mike added, appearing over Fox's shoulder. "I've never seen anyone stand up to Nick alone and walk away from it in one piece. You handled that well son."
"Thanks," Fox smiled.
"On the house," Mike beamed, setting another mug of the odd brown liquid in front of the young pilot. "I owe you big for this one."
Fox shook his head, reaching for the credit chip in his shirt pocket. "Nah, you don't owe me anything. Any flyboy in my shoes would have the same—"
Mike held up one hand in refusal. "This one's my treat."
"Are you sure," asked Fox. Whatever was in that brown bottle wasn't listed with the usual drinks. Undoubtedly it was something special, and he felt a little guilty accepting another free portion.
"I'm positive," Mike insisted. "Enjoy it son. You've earned it!"
"Well, okay," Fox grinned, raising his cup to the bartender. "Thanks."
"No problem!"
"What exactly is this stuff," Fox wondered again as he bore the spirit's fiery sting with a grimace. Even Falco couldn't deny its potency, had he been here. He would definitely have to drink this second mug more slowly.
"Hey, wait a second," the stranger piped in his strange, high-pitched tones. "I've seen you somewhere before. Aren't you the guy they picked to do the final shakedown for the Arwing prototype?"
"Yeah," Fox nodded, arching a brow in surprise. He couldn't quite place the portly frog sitting across the table. "Have we met?"
"Check under your wings more often," the stranger laughed. "It takes a lot of work to keep that baby in top condition! My name's Slippy Toad, but you can just call me Slippy."
"Slippy huh?" Fox nodded, shaking the mechanic's extended hand. "Nice name."