Yes, I'm still putting this up despite the fact that the majority of the F-Zero section's fanfics don't get a lot of reviews (if any at all). It might get reviews later on, though, so heck with it, on with the fic!
DISCLAIMER: I still don't own F-Zero. And most likely never will.
Chapter 1: Four Years Later
The once clean Inner family home had fallen into shambles. Mismatched against the pristine neighborhood, the house more resembled an abandoned slum than anything else. And yet, it did have one resident.
Currently, this one resident stood in the Inner home's garage, wearing a gray jacket over a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up as he slowly repaired the Cyber Chariot. His navy jeans managed to avoid being burnt by scattering sparks, as did his black shoes. Progress on the repairs was slow—indeed, it had taken three years to fix the machine—but, soon, it would be ready.
Now sixteen, Velos Inner dragged a welder's flame across a crack in the Chariot's body, melting the sides enough to seal the crack. Defusing the welder, Velos pulled his orange-tinted goggles up onto his significantly longer black hair. He smiled. Every day, his parents' machine was looking more and more like it used to in its prime. Only several more days would do it.
"One day, this thing is definitely entering a Grand Prix," Velos vowed.
"It sure is, kiddo!" croaked a voice behind him.
"Hey, Ironman," Velos said without even turning around, lowering his goggles and once again welding his machine.
The old man named Mortimer "Silver" Neelson hobbled forward on his cane, lowering his own black goggles to avoid sparks burning his eyes, though he assumed his white beard would be unable to evade being singed. His brown coat, matching his pants, flapped behind him as his boots clunked the ground.
Like Velos' parents before him, Neelson served as a sort of mentor to the Inner child. Velos almost saw Neelson as a surrogate grandfather, seeing as the old racer fought hard to have Velos plucked from the orphanage the Galactic Space Federation had placed him in. Knowing that racing blood ran in Velos' veins, Neelson had the remains of the Cyber Chariot taken from Federation custody three years prior, allowing Velos the time to fix it.
"Your parents would be so proud, kiddo," Neelson commented. "Too bad they aren't here to see their son race."
"Yeah," Velos agreed. "Hate to sound like one of those emos, but 'Pico will pay for what he did to my family'," Velos added, pausing to clear his throat and add dramatic effect to his false vow.
"How long do you think you have to go?" Neelson asked.
"Oh, two to three days," Velos answered, returning to welding, "should be ready in time for the next Grand Prix."
"You've got a long time until then, kiddo," Neelson said. "This year's Grand Prix ended a few months ago. You've got enough time to brush up on your racing skills, I think."
"I'm gonna need it," Velos groaned. "I have to go against Captain Falcon. Fal-con. The guy who wins the F-Zero every year."
"Heh heh, yeah, that's true," Neelson chuckled. "If you went into the F-Zero Pilot Training School, though—"
Velos turned off his welder and slammed his palms onto his machine.
"Neelson, you know how I feel about Super Arrow," Velos said in a serious tone.
Velos' dislike of the costumed racer stemmed from the aftermath of the accident four years before. Unlike any other racer involved, Super Arrow emerged from the pile-up without the slightest of scratches on him, completely contrary to Velos' parents. After the F-Zero had restarted, thanks to Arrow's arguments, the pilot of the King Meteor founded a school for aspiring racers, something Velos was determined to be no part of.
"Sorry, kiddo," Neelson apologized. "It's just that…well, it's not just people who don't know how to race who enroll. It's pretty hard to get into the Prix without an official license from the school."
"Whoa, back up," Velos interjected, finally turning. "You said—and I remember these words like they were five seconds ago—you said 'I'll vouch for you, kiddo, count on it'. Since when was your memory that bad, Neelson?"
Neelson's response was a raw, hearty laugh. Velos never failed to, in some way, amuse the aged racer.
"Ha-ha!" Neelson guffawed. "Right again, kiddo. Guess I must be getting old."
"Well, if you keep racing after you turn a hundred, you might actually outrun your age," Velos joked.
"Ha!" Neelson chuckled. "And most people think you would be dark and brooding after you saw your parents die on galaxy-wide television!"
"Is the way I dress that bad?!" Velos shouted to the sky. "Ugh, there's no accounting for taste in some people."
"Speaking of accounting," Neelson said. "After you give the Cyber Chariot a few test runs, maybe you and I can enter a bet race?"
"You mean that kind of race you got Falcon to enter?" Velos asked.
"Yep!" Neelson smirked. "That's how I got the same million space credits I used to get what was left of the Chariot out of the junkyard. It's a pretty good way to get a taste of what a real Grand Prix is like."
"First, though, I have to actually have a machine," Velos pointed out, returning once again to his welding. "Like I said, should be ready in a couple more days."
"I'll see you in a couple of days then, kiddo!" said Neelson cheerfully as he left. "We'll see how well you race then, won't we?"
"We sure will, Neelson," Velos muttered, smirking as he continued the repairs on the Cyber Chariot. "We sure will."
Seconds later, a growl escaped from his abdominal regions. Chuckling lightly, Velos put a hand over his stomach.
"Whoops, lunchtime," laughed Velos, replacing his welder on his parents' machine and departing the garage. Rather than heading left, like Neelson, he instead headed right. He had taken this route before.
Given that Velos had no means of transportation, having a defunct machine and no F-Zero license, he usually took a Galaxy Cab taxi to the Galaxy Diner for lunch. He was friends with one of the cabbies, the one whose cab he usually took.
After walking a short distance, Velos pressed a button on a pole marked "GALAXY CAB". After a few short minutes, a bright yellow hovering cab rocketed up to the sign, scooted forward several inches, and finally backed several more inches. A window rolled down, and an alien with a head reminiscent of a yellow grasshopper poked his pointed nose out the window.
"Hey, Vee!" called the cabbie named PJ. "Let me guess, Galaxy Diner, right?"
"This and the next few hundred times," Velos answered, entering the cab. Like when it arrived, PJ's taxi jolted off, PJ's notorious driving skills demonstrating themselves immediately.
"So, uh, how's your folks' machine?" PJ asked.
"Couple more days and it'll be finished," Velos answered proudly.
"Sweet!" PJ said. "Guess I'll be watching you race in the Grand Prix this year."
"Yeah, guess so," Velos smiled, leaning back in his seat.
PJ absent-mindedly flipped a switch on his console, activating a radio. The music that played was a song by pop artist Jack Levin, though Velos seemed to be irritated by the song.
"PJ," Velos said sternly.
"Oh, my bad," PJ said, turning the radio off.
PJ knew of this, as did Neelson: Velos disliked racers affiliated in any way with the Galactic Space Federation. As the Federation police—and their subsequent Mobile Unit—worked for the same organization that put Velos in an orphanage, it was difficult for the teenager to not dislike the Federation racers for, as Neelson called it, "keeping him from destiny". These racers included the likes of Jody Summer, John Tanaka, Jack Levin, and others.
"So, uh, how was this year's Prix?" PJ asked.
"Amazing as always," Velos replied. "Had a surprise ending, though. Who would have thought some maniac named Deathborn would show up and throw Black Shadow to who knows where?"
"Really," PJ agreed.
"Anyone know how the race between Falcon and Deathborn turned out?" Velos asked. "All I saw was Deathborn publicly challenge Falcon."
"Falcon won," PJ answered.
"Of course," Velos sighed.
"He didn't say much about how it happened," PJ continued. "All he said was that Deathborn died from his machine falling into lava."
The cab then made a sudden sharp turn, launching Velos into the side of the car.
"I'd hate to see you race," Velos moaned. "Oh, am I criticizing your flying again?"
"Eh, you're not the first," PJ shrugged. "Besides, my worst passengers are drunks. And couples who can't keep their hands off each other."
The cab then seemed to jump off of a ramp, coming to a sudden stop before Velos' door opened.
"Okay, here's the diner," PJ announced. "Good luck in the Prix, Vee."
"Later, Peej," Velos waved before heading into the diner, making sure the space credits Neelson had given him were still in his pocket.
****
In another area of Mute City, something else was happening. This sort of event was nothing like the rampant vandalisms of the racing gang known as the Bloody Chain, or like the bet races taking place at the Bet Race Dollars. It was something entirely different.
Right in the middle of the street, it seemed as if the air itself was warping. Slowly, the air curved in a circle, a small glow appearing in the middle. Suddenly, the glow exploded as wind rushed from the opening it created. With the wind, two F-Zero machines burst from the light, one towing the other.
The first, the one in front, resembled a large red bird with the legs being replaced by boosters. The second was a larger, green machine, with an open cockpit in which a rather large-headed robot worked.
"All right, Q, we're here," stated the pilot of the front machine with what seemed to be a Scottish accent. "Welcome to 2201, QQQ."
"Error," droned the robot called QQQ. "Malfunction. Data unclear. Memory access unsuccessful."
"You really shouldn't do that, Q," scolded the unknown pilot. "You know your memory isn't what it used to be."
"Affirmative, Master Phoenix," QQQ replied.
"And for the hundredth time, please don't call me that," the pilot named Phoenix sighed.
"Affirmative, Master Phoenix," repeated QQQ.
"Er, never mind," Phoenix grumbled. "Just follow me."
With that, Phoenix's time-traveling Rainbow Phoenix sped down the highway, QQQ's Rolling Turtle staying as close as possible.
****