The Ghost Writer and The Veteran, Chapter 6
Dear Diary,
So!
Fox and I went out to dinner!
…it says something about how much time I spent in the trenches with news writing that I default to just dropping a lead like that at the start automatically, even in a personal diary. If it bleeds, it leads. In this case, if it makes me blush, it leads.
Anyhow, let's get back to the beginning.
We just finished the section of the memoir pertaining to the team's daring assault on Venom's orbital defense system, known as the Battle of Area 6. It was, as Fox calls it, the team's finest hour. The four of them punched right through Andross's fleet of defense satellites and fighter squadrons to finally open up the last approach to Venom proper. Fox's narration of the battle was electrifying, and I had to ask him to pause in his dictation every so often, so I could shake myself out of the mental images of that grand battle.
I was in the process of packing my laptop up when Fox approached me, looking bashful. He said he had a request, and that I was under no obligation to accept it.
"What is it?" I said.
"Would you like to go out to dinner?" he said. "Maybe this evening?"
"Yes," I blurted out. And we both stood there, probably blushing like high school sweethearts, before we chuckled and agreed upon a time that evening.
I am aware, of course, of the need for professional distance with a job like this, but…I've been getting to know Fox well over the past few days. I'm a regular guest at his house now, practically, and chat with him regularly outside of our sessions. I'm at the point now where he feels like an acquaintance rather that a biographical subject. And, frankly, if he's the one telling his story, and I'm just putting it to paper, then whatever professional concerns I could have are muted. I like Fox. So, I want to spend time with him. So, I decided to accept his invitation.
The place he took me too was a homely fish joint close to the beach, a bit outside the city limits but not too far. It was a casual place, but I still wanted to look nice. I chose a yellow sundress, with one of my nicer necklaces. When Fox picked me up I saw that he had similar thoughts of dressing up, but not excessively. He wore a fetching dark green polo, and tan shorts, both of which showed his build in all the devastatingly effective ways. We stared at each other, blushed, and drove to the restaurant, where we were promptly seated at a table with a magnificent view of the ocean.
The food was phenomenal. Better still was the conversation. We chatted easily, as if we knew each other for far longer than two weeks or so.
"Why did you become a writer?" he asked.
My story? I told him I was always a creative person, writing things here and there, scribbling poems and short stories in the secret notebook all young writers have but sometimes never admit too. I was also curious. I dreamed of venturing across Lylat and documenting everything. I was lucky to be surrounded by supportive people. My family, friends, teachers. I was also lucky to land internships which translated into a job as a young reporter. The war gave my voice a chance to ring, and even more broadly, it gave my writing a chance to feel like it had impact. Like it could do something to the world, such as inspire or inform.
Fox's eyes glinted at that.
"I'm like that with piloting," he said.
"Really?" I asked.
He nodded. Part of what drives him to maintain Star Fox, he told me, was something more than his sense of adventure. Even more specific than his desire to help people. Piloting gave him a chance to do something meaningful in the world, that could have weight. Impact, just as I described my writing work.
"I not looking to change the world," he said. "But I can make it easier for others to live in, with what I do."
"That's going in the memoir," I told him.
He smiled. "If you say so," he said.
Then I asked him what he plans to do with Star Fox now. A question related to work rather than play, but now felt like a right and organic time to ask it.
"With the Cornerian Military rebuilding and striving to be better than it was before the war, work dried up," he said. "I won't hope for a new conflict. I hope work shows up eventually, but it feels wrong to wish for something to go wrong with Lylat again. Knowing it's wrong to wish for conflict doesn't stop me from feeling listless, though."
He stared at the ocean for a moment.
"I'm really glad you were hired," he said. "You're helping me fix that listless feeling with this book." A smile. "Thank you."
Goodness. I about melted hearing that. I blush now just writing that down.
-Krystal