Disclaimer: This will be the first chapter featuring Rick Branson, an OC donated by DaLintyMan. Oh, and I don't own Star Fox.
Badlander
Chapter 8: The Storm
"Argh!" A loud voice growled as the outdated C-47 Skytrain transport plane shuttered as it exited the stratosphere.
"We're coming up on Crete." Commander Rick Branson chimed in, "Damn, the Commies aren't liking our approach!" And why would they? He considered silently. It wasn't as if they were there to rescue the officious prick responsible for crushing the Greek uprising…
The cluttered transport ducked suddenly as thermokinetic warheads erupted off the port side in a collection of yellow-white flashes. The hull shuttered violently, threatening to come apart at the seams as they descended into the gray, war-torn atmosphere.
A low beep chirped out over the hail of shells erupting in the sky.
"We're almost there; Romanov's beacon is close," a female pilot with sharp Asiatic features barked over the deafening noise of the shells.
We'd damn well better be! Commander Branson didn't say. The flickering lights barely illuminated his two Russian companions, who twisted visibly with the mention of the Romanov name. Depending on the Russian, that name could symbolize anything from heartless oppression to righteous leadership, which represented a unique dichotomy for Russians that most Westerners didn't understand. But Branson was not like most Westerners. Branson had grown up on the Australian desert colony Barrier on the far ends of the Pacific Cluster, close to the fledgling Japanese Empire, and was well-exposed to Eastern values and culture well before he became an adult.
Traditional Russian culture, much like Branson, symbolized something of a mix between Western and Eastern ideologies. Throughout its history, the once-great Russian Empire had struggled between acceptance of Western values and the recognizance of its own Eastern roots. But much of that changed with the advent of Leninism and later Stalinism which brought an even greater degree of oppression upon a nation that had never been free to begin with. And the bastardized result was the Soviet Union, and the obfuscating red shadow it cast over parts of Earthspace that the so-called "American heroes" had not even bothered to learn about.
And now he was tasked with bringing the haunted Russian figure into the Cornerian conflict, where both Westerners and Easterners alike had discovered (much to their chagrin) that they were not alone in the universe, and sought inject themselves like parasites into the veins of Cornerian politics and affairs.
Even worse, Branson knew, the damned Malakhim egged the Westerners on, driving them further towards whatever the fossilized Empire's goals might have been. What they didn't consider was perhaps the universe might actually end up on the cinder like those post-apocalyptic films in which Kinetic Bombs ripped through hyperspace and shattered planets across the cosmos.
Morons. He thought silently as the C-47 leveled out for vertical landing on the tropical Greek moon of Crete.
"We're right on top of the beacon!" The pilot added over the howl of the engines, "Starting vertical descent!"
Branson wished he didn't have to be in the middle of a remnant Communist rebellion – it put his valuable crew in particularly unacceptable risky situations. But the pay was good, and a man of the Romanov family was not to be disappointed.
Well, no more than he had to be after losing his whole damned Empire.
He shook off the thought and began organizing his crew for the extraction mission, for time was fleeting and a grand payday was near.
Below, the last Tsar of the Russian Empire was waiting.
The white stars gleamed miraculously as they shot past the transparent observation window. Within the dim room, lit only by the light of the most distant, lonely stars, Gideon sat and clicked the power button his MiniRec.
A low, foreboding voice hummed from the miniature device's speakers, echoing throughout the silent room.
"Maybe…" the sad, lost voice wondered, "You'll think of me… when you are all alone."
In the background, a soft, wooden guitar was plucked quietly in the breezeless room as the voices continued.
"Maybe the one who is waiting for you… will prove untrue… Then what will you do?" Gideon clasped the whiskey shot on the dark table in front of him and sipped slightly, savoring the alcohol's sour taste as he watched the stars roll by. Gideon closed his eyes as a tear slowly escaped down the right side of his face.
"Maybe you'll think of me, wishing that I-"
A shuffling sound emanated from the back of the room.
Shit!
Quickly, Gideon snatched his metallic MiniRec and fumbled with the power button, drowning out the lost voice and instrumentations of the Ink Spots. He placed the device on the table and turned around, gazing at the intruder. Hazel stood at the entrance to the small, cluttered observation room. Her pretty face glowed warmly in the darkness. His heart instinctively beat faster.
Calm down, Gideon. There's nothing going on between you and this… this vixen. You can be colleagues; friends, even. But in the end, she's a Cornerian and you're a human, and as soon as this whole charade is over you'll be kicking it with the high rollers in the City with all this fuckin' back pay Uncle Sam owes you. You'll forget all about her and she'll forget all about you.
"Um, sorry," Hazel spoke softly, "Is this a bad time?"
"N-not at all," Gideon stammered, and cast his left arm outward in a gesture of invitation.
Oh, God, I hope she doesn't know that I was seriously brooding while watching the stars. She'll think I'm a melodramatic creep!
The vixen calmly strutted into the room and took a seat at the table just in front of the glass window he's previously been peering out of. She glanced curiously at the shot glass and bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey that rested on the table.
Hazel hocked an eyebrow and gazed at him appraisingly.
"So, you couldn't sleep either, huh?" She asked.
"No, not really," he answered swiftly and shook his head. He grimaced in the dark as missiles of emotion and irrationality exploded underneath his hardened skin. He was somewhat thankful that the darkness of the room concealed at least some part of the sheer panic he was certain was showing on his face.
He sat down across from Hazel and was struck with horrifying certainty that he had left his MiniRec on the table. The metallic device gleamed bluishly in the dim starlight.
"What's this?" her warm, intelligent voice radiated over his cold skin. He glanced at her and saw her cradling his MiniRec curiously.
"That was my only source of entertainment during the Depression," he answered more confidently than he thought he could. He stretched a hand out, gesturing for the device. Quietly, Hazel placed the MiniRec in his hand. Gideon savored the moment as the tips of their fingers brushed in the exchange, and as his face grew hot he was once again thankful for the darkness.
Hazel's features grew somber as she continued to speak.
"I-I heard about the Depression," Hazel sympathized and placed a paw on his left hand. He did not recoil. She gulped visibly at the touch and continued, "It must have been hell to live through that."
When Gideon had first met Hazel, he had immediately noticed her undeniable intelligence, but he never imagined that she, possibly the most talkative Cornerian he had ever met, might also be the most open-minded. It was comforting to have someone to talk to.
"For a while it was bad, real bad. People looting in the streets, starving children killing each other for scraps of food. Some seriously messed up shit that I'll remember 'till the day I die." Gideon held up the device again. "This little thing here taught me how to play the saxophone – that's the instrument I was playing at the funeral service," he confirmed, and she nodded for him to continue. "When I was feeling at my worst, all I'd have to do is turn this little bad boy on and it helped me feel hope; hope that no matter how bad things were or how lonely I got, things would somehow be better."
Gideon cradled the device nostalgically, tracing the grime and scratches that had accumulated throughout the years.
"What about your parents?" Hazel asked softly, her warm amber eyes knowing the answer even as she asked.
"I -" he grimaced, the question stabbing him in the chest like a dull knife. "I never knew them. I was raised in an… an orphanage," he nearly spat, but no matter how strong the memories were, he couldn't muster the courage to tell the beautiful vixen before him about his early childhood. Some things were best left unsaid.
"But enough about me," he concluded, regaining his confidence. "Let's hear more about you, you know, let's put the spotlight on you." He cracked a smile.
Hazel smiled slightly and placed her right paw underneath her chin in a thinking pose.
"Oh, you'd probably think I'm Little Miss Boring with her ordinary teenage drama-filled childhood."
"Try me," he dared softly and smiled.
"Hmpf!" Hazel grunted. She shot him an unbelieving look and crossed her arms. "Maybe; if you promise not to laugh!"
Gideon threw her a protesting glare, but from the half-smiling way Hazel held her ground, he couldn't tell if she was intentionally being humorous or deflecting his questioning. He eased up on his prying, in case the latter were true.
"Alright, if I promise not to laugh you have to tell me one small thing about yourself."
"I don't have to do anything," the reddish vixen reminded him, "But if you promise to remain civil, maybe I'll be charitable."
Gideon let a smile spread across his face. "Fine. I solemnly swear on the lives of the Three Stooges that I will not grin, smile, or laugh so long as your Majesty graces me with a story."
Hazel giggled cutely. "That's more like it," she responded victoriously.
"All pilots! Repeat all pilots, report to your assigned hangars for assistance in the Fichina defense effort!"
A loud, mechanical voice blared obnoxiously over the dark silence of the room. Hazel sighed.
The voice continued, "First Lieutenant Hazel Bartlett, Second Lieutenant Samuel Carson and..." the voice paused as if grappling with some unpleasant fact or taste, "Captain Gideon Waller, report to Shuttle Bay One."
"To be continued?" Gideon asked as he gathered his things and made for the door.
"Definitely," Hazel said to herself, smiling as she followed him.
"Okay, you'd better explain to me why the hell you want us to go to that ice planet!"
Commander Rick Branson stood in front the pale, scrawny, sandy-blonde man he'd rescued barely an hour before. The various bruises and scars from the conflict were still plainly visible on the man's cold face. The man sneered and gazed challengingly into the Commander's eyes.
Who the hell does this brat think he is?
"I am paying you for that," the man said simply in a thin Russian accent. Suddenly, his voice grew heavy and dark. "And you'll do well to treat your betters with respect, socoris."
The sandy-haired man smirked and turned to leave. His footsteps resounded metallically throughout the old Japanese Q-Ship.
"That man is trouble, I can feel it." The female pilot announced from behind Branson. Her cool brown eyes surveyed the crew's newest member.
"He's a Malakhim, Akami – what did you expect?" Branson replied. His dark green hair, which had been subject to much ridicule over the years, glowed dully in the dimly lit make-shift hangar. Around him, various smaller craft sat silently, each in its own individual state of disrepair.
"But god damn it if we don't need the money," he mumbled silently.
He turned back to his pilot. "Set a course for Fichina in the Lylat System, maximum speed."
"Shouldn't Star Fox be joining us?" Carson asked the authoritative hare who stood before him. Carson might not have been one to complain, but he had to admit separating from the most successful mercenary squadron in the Lylat System had made him uneasy.
"Star Fox has other mission objectives to secure before they can help you can perform yours. They left the Horizon an hour ago, but they'll meet up with you on the planet." Peppy replied.
"Then what is it exactly you need me for..." he trailed off, awfully certain of something for the first time since…
My father's work…
"The Weather Control Center," Carson breathed silently. Of, course, it all made sense, he knew. But he had to be sure. "b-but surely you have reinforced security for the facility?"
Peppy's face grew dark. Suddenly, two pairs of footsteps resounded neatly off the polished Cornerian Navy corridor. Carson turned.
"Okay, we're here," Hazel Bartlett announced before she saw Peppy glaring at her. Quickly, she clapped her boots together and saluted, "Sir!"
Gideon Waller walked in alongside her, his face creasing slightly as if he were hiding a smirk. He carried a large green survival backpack that had various gismos sticking out of the top and sides.
"Colonel Hare," the human acknowledged and saluted as well. He glanced at the immobile Cornerian shuttles that stood unused and abandoned during the call to arms.
"I take it we're not part of the aerial defense effort?" Gideon ventured. His aquatic blue gaze met the solid earth-brown of Peppy's eyes.
"You're correct," Peppy allowed, and gestured toward the shuttles. "These are prototype XB-1 Anti-Pulse Shuttles; they feature technology lent from your generous friends in Washington." Carson was pretty sure the word "generous" was political jargon for "We had to sell our souls to get this piece of crap. It didn't come with Cheerios, it wouldn't get me any girls, and they didn't give us a refund."
"Anti-pulse – these shuttles can withstand an EMP blast?" Carson blurted out, his sheer fascination with advanced technology loosening his tongue. Aside, the nearest silverish shuttle leaned toward the shuttle bay doors a like robotic hawk ready to plunge into cold depths of the sky.
"In theory," Peppy corrected, "Pulse weapons were banned after Great War One; too unethical and indefensible, but intelligence reports suggest that the Darcies are armed with one. Of course," he glanced at Gideon, "I don't have to tell you how dangerous a weapon like that can be in the hands of our enemies."
"Wait, just a sec," Hazel interrupted, her smile responding to something that was just too ridiculous to be true. "Darcies? We're calling them Darcies now?"
"Yeah, DRC – Darcies, Pepper thought it had a nice ring to it," Peppy answered, smiling slightly. "Ahem," he straightened himself, remembering his duties. "We've received a distress call from the Fichina Military Research Facility on the northern continent of Alea, but unfortunately we can't establish a communications link with the base and we have no available manpower to spare for a rescue party. Your mission is to land at the station and provide whatever aid you can."
"But we're pilots. What are we supposed to do?" Carson asked, although he already knew the answer.
"Lieutenant Bartlett has medical expertise," he turned to face the reddish vixen, "You'll be in charge of insuring the health of everyone at the facility. Waller," he turned to face the human. "Your superiors have told me a great deal about your exploits in the Badlands," he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You'll be in charge of ground security. And Carson…" he didn't need to finish. Carson nodded, accepting his fate.
"The shuttle's loaded up with supplies and navigational coordinates for the base. I won't be in constant contact with you, but I will make sure that there is always someone standing by should you need us to send more shuttles down for extraction," he added comfortingly. Peppy may have been a mercenary, but he also cared deeply for the soldiers under his command, Carson recognized.
"Good luck and good hunting," Peppy concluded, saluted sharply, and left to attend to his arduous duty as de facto commander of the Fichina Front.
"I call shotgun," Carson attempted. His short joke was met with the dull hum of the starship.
"Alright Curly, let's see what this thing can do." Gideon clapped the ferret on the shoulder and walked towards the gleaming silver shuttle.
Unsure of what "Curly" was supposed to represent in American society, as Carson's own fur was straight, the ferret fell in behind Gideon and Hazel, with an awfully confused look stretched across his face.
The craft descended gracefully into the atmosphere. Among many things, the Cornerians were great shipbuilders, Gideon recognized. Not a single rumble or issue of turbulence disturbed the expensive craft as it slipped toward its destination. But something was wrong, Gideon knew.
Since his first stint on a starship, he had come to expect and almost crave the constant rumbling and roaring of American spacecraft. The silence of this shuttle was deafening; unnatural like the white-polished rooms of his childhood. It felt as though he weren't moving at all; that he was stuck, chained to a steel bed back in the Orphanage. He could feel their eyes examining him, prying secrets from his mind as gleaming metal instruments scraped indiscriminately across his bare flash.
He paced back and forth in the shuttle's main compartment to shrug off his newfound anxiety. Across the room, Hazel and Carson sat at the controls.
"Are you okay, Skip?" Hazel's voice. He turned to face the vixen.
"I told you; call me Gideon," he growled unintentionally. He stopped pacing and cursed himself when he saw a sour look cross the vixen's face.
"Sorry, Gideon," she responded, her voice taking on a worried tone.
He took a second to scold himself further before he decided to speak.
"No, I'm sorry, Hazel," Gideon promised, "It's just…" he trailed off and gazed blankly at the floor. How could he ever expect her to understand? What had he been thinking when he decided to tell Hazel about his past? How could he have been so selfish?
Hazel rose from her chair and walked over to him. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. She drew closer to him. Gideon could feel the warmth radiating from her body, and at that moment he wanted to do nothing more than embrace her, cradle her, to tell her everything was going to be okay.
"I'm here for you, you know, if you need me," she purred quietly, so only Gideon could hear.
That was it. All thoughts were cast aside. Neither one spoke as Gideon inched closer to her, their bodies centimeters from touching. Hazel mimicked his movements, her warm amber eyes gazing deeply into his. She evoked such a mysterious and wonderful feeling with him whenever they were together. He didn't - he couldn't – understand what it was he was feeling at that moment. Somehow she made him feel more… real.
Did she feel the same way? He wondered silently as they stood within kissing distance of one another. She didn't show signs of retreating, nor did she show any signs of initiating anything. It was all up to him to find out where something like this could lead.
A sharp mechanical beeping prevented him from finding out.
"Uh, guys, you might wanna come up here," he heard Carson's voice chime in nervously over the shrill cry of the ship's alert systems.
Awkwardly, Gideon and Hazel broke off from one another, avoiding each other's gaze as they dashed toward Carson's position at the pilot's controls.
"What's wrong?" Hazel asked, leaning on the copilot's seat.
"I-I'm detecting a massive energy surge from the research base. Damn!" The ferret swore and his fingers became a barely visible blur over the pilot's controls.
Instantly, the lights within the main cabin dimmed, flickering hauntingly over the barely perceivable howl of the wind outside. The ship lurched, staggering Gideon. He grabbed hold of a control console, praying that whatever buttons he pushed didn't say SELF-DESTRUCT. His continued existence, however, proved that this fear was mute.
"They just hit us with a Pulse Blast!" Carson shouted as over the sudden turbulence. "Anti-Pulse systems are holding; but the emergency batteries overcompensated for the power drain."
"How bad?" Gideon asked, his voice low and serious.
"We're running on twenty-two percent power; just enough to keep us in the air…" He trailed off as the ship began to reassert its position in the sky.
"Who?" Hazel asked urgently, "Who the hell just hit us? We're nowhere near contested territory!"
"The Darcies," Carson answered as he continued his work at the controls. "They must have taken over the Base."
"I guess that explains why Command wasn't able to send a message to the facility," Hazel concluded. "The station's crew are probably all being held prisoner, or…" she didn't have to continue.
Gideon nodded. "There must be some way we can get the word through," he turned to the ferret. "Carson – can you patch us in to the Horizon?"
Carson tried a few buttons before sighing.
"It's no use, Sir. The Pulse knocked out our Comm Systems and I'm having trouble keeping us in the air as it is. I-" he stammered nervously, "I'm afraid we don't have enough power to get back into orbit. We might be able to reach the front lines at this point," he ventured, "but it's impossible to tell."
"Then we have no choice," Gideon commanded, his tone cool and calculating. He ignored the sudden worried twitches in his companions' expressions as the Soldier within him woke from the darkest recesses of his mind. "We proceed on-mission."
And the cabin grew silent.
"Uh, guys," Hazel's worried voice broke sudden quietness of the shuttle. "What the hell is that?"
"That is the Constellation Leo," Carson chimed in full geek mode. He pointed up at the stars which shined brightly even through Fichina's daytime sky.
"No - that." She pointed directly in front of the shuttle.
Gideon leaned towards the glass viewport for a better look. Ahead of the shuttle, the normally thin, white, ethereal Fichina clouds were becoming darker. Gideon narrowed his eyes observantly as, by perhaps the tens or the hundreds, the clouds ahead of the XB-1 Shuttle conjoined into a dark mass of writhing black clouds, churning with malevolent energy.
"Carson!" Gideon barked as the clouds spread-ever near, static energy illuminating the horrid spectacle like fireworks cloaked in smoke. "What exactly were your scientists researching here?!"
"N-no time!" Carson stammered and stood from his chair. He quickly ran to the back of the main cabin and pulled opened a compartment pasted with thick blue lettering which read EMERGENCY: PARACHUTE GEAR. His voice suddenly grew alarmingly low and threatening as he strapped one of the slate white parachute packs on his back. "Each of you grab a parachute or you're dead."
Suddenly, a massive flash emanated from the front viewport. Immediately, a booming CLAP! thundered throughout the cabin as a line of heat streaked into the shuttle's hull, breaching the far side of the main cabin. Gideon knew he only had mere seconds to grab onto something. His hands met a solid metal grip and he held on for dear life as the cabin depressurized and the hellishly cold outside air tore at his bare face. He caught a brief dark flash as Carson was sucked, accompanied by his parachute, into the white void of the Fichina skies.
Another flash darted before his eyes and, seemingly without his knowledge, his free right hand had wrapped around Hazel's left forearm. He gazed down at her, opening his mouth to speak but the words were torn from his lungs as the various chairs and equipment were from the main cabin of the once-advanced shuttle. She gazed into his eyes are her body flailed numbly in the howling maw of the ship. He noticed with a panic that Hazel had not had time to retrieve a parachute.
Come on, Hazel! Give me your other hand! Gideon screamed within himself. Then he remembered the Ejection Survival Pack that still clung to his back like a newborn child. He could save them both, he realized. No sooner had he tried to draw Hazel closer to him so they could open his parachute together, his strength failed him. He looked on in horror as the reddish vixen tumbled like a ragdoll into the atmosphere.
So, like any sane man trying to save an alien girl who evoked feelings within him that were themselves the farthest thing from sane, Gideon let go of the metal holding. Cold air tore at his flight suit and gnawed at his exposed eyes as he plunged face-first into the depths of Fichina's skies.
Oh, Andrea, my beauty, if only you could see this, General Solarex thought darkly as he observed the dissipating Cornerian-made storm above. With that level of power in the palm of my hands, nothing in Lylat or even Earthspace will keep me from you, my sweet.
"Sir, weren't your orders for us to not kill the human?" The officious squat lizard chimed in annoyingly. "And where the hell is Star Fox?"
"Oh, the Malakhim is most definitely alive. And believe me," Solarex promised, smiling darkly. The lizard quickly backed away from the gargantuan primate's toothy, maniacal grin. "After our little demonstration, Star Fox will arrive shortly."
"Have you prepared Her, Comrade?" he asked offhand.
"We have, General," the lizard stammered as he backed further away.
"Good. Notify me when you have the human into custody," Solarex commanded and sauntered back into the Fichina Military Research Facility where his Prize awaited him, unwrapped, stripped, bare. His for the taking. Kivuli Solarex entered the prepared room and smiled.
It was time to have fun.
Terms:
EMP/Pulse Weapons: Electromagnetic Pulse weapons were invented and deployed during the First Great War. The weapons would most often be used on entire fleets of vessels, stripping them of their power and, concurrently, their life support. This caused the brutal asphyxiation of tens of thousands of crewmen who were stationed throughout the Atlantic Star Cluster. These weapons were immediately considered barbaric and cruel by most authorities, and after the Treaty of Versailles was established in 1918, these weapons were permanently banned. This, however, has not stopped criminal enterprises and the Black Market from propagating and selling this technology.
Kinetic Bomb: Also known as K-Bombs, Kinetic Bombs utilize previously unachievable levels of relativistic travel that allow antimatter warheads to travel at speeds so fast that, upon impact and detonation, a single Kinetic Bomb is capable of annihilating an entire continent. The resulting uplift of debris will block off all planetary access to the sun, destroying all foliage and, as a result, all life on the victim world. The United States and Soviet Union are the only two modern empires who are known to have stockpiles of K-Bombs, and, as such, the populations of both civilizations live under the constant worry that with each passing moment, the entirety of Earthspace could be destroyed.
Socoris: Latin slang for "weakminded" or "idiot", usually a condescending Malakhim term for inhabitants of modern civilizations.
Q-Ship: During the Second Great War, the various conflicting empires constructed combat vessels in the form of merchant ships to catch enemy fleets off guard. Although the Axis and Allied powers alike kept and maintained Q-Ships, they had no way of discerning them from common trading vessels, and since trade was of absolute necessity during the galaxy-wide conflict, the fleets of many nations fell victim to attacks by unrecognized Q-Ships.