Routine is important, even in the safety of lightspeed travel.
Peppy Hare mentally repeats this mantra to himself as he trudges into Great Fox's empty mess hall. For a number of seconds indeterminable to him, he just stands there blinking slowly before he rapidly shakes his head and moves towards some cabinets. Opening one, he tilts a nondescript box of plain cereal towards him and withdraws a couple of plastic-wrapped cherry cheesecake pastries. Once he was absolutely sure the cereal box was set perfectly back in place, he closes the cabinet and heads for the fridge, snatching a tall glass from the sink's drying rack on the way without pausing. Now properly equipped with his pastries and a healthy serving of orange juice, he takes a seat at the table and slowly eats.
He knows now that he shouldn't have stayed up so late playing video games with the boys. He knew it then, too, but Falco had gotten a bit too big for his britches over his fighting game prowess and needed several lessons in humility. Although Peppy ultimately emerged victorious, those final few 'first to ten' challenges definitely took their toll on him.
As the light breakfast settles comfortably into his stomach, he washes the glass and sets it behind the other three on the rack before making a beeline for the coffee station just as it finishes brewing a large carafe. Two heaping spoonfuls of hot cocoa mix are dumped into his favorite mug before he fills it up with the lifeblood of the team's mornings. While he stirs the mixture, he squints at a laminated sign he'd never seen before and reads it out loud.
"'If you take the last cup, please make the next pot'..." A sigh escapes him. "Yeah...good luck with that one, Slippy," he mutters with amusement and exits the mess hall. They had only been in lightspeed for a few days of their trip and already petty squabbles were flaring up. Thankfully, this one doesn't concern Peppy; he wakes up earlier specifically to get first crack at the coffee pot.
His stroll to the bridge is short and without incident. "Mornin', ROB," he says, sketching a salute to the robot pilot before flopping into the chair at his usual station. The tunnel of whirling, mottled blue light outside the viewport isn't much to look at, but Peppy still finds the sight of lightspeed travel calming. "Anything unusual to report?"
"Negative," ROB 64 monotonously replies, pressing a few buttons. A display of Great Fox's profile accompanied by a series of barely fluctuating bar graphs shimmers in the air before Peppy's eyes. "Systems are nominal, as usual."
Peppy nods and leans back in his chair to prop his feet on a console. "As usual," he echoes, placing his steaming coffee cup on a terminal to his right so it could cool. How people could drink this stuff at Solar temperature without destroying their mouths, he'll never know. After his disastrous first—and only—time drinking it hot, it destroyed his mouth and everything tasted like rubber for a week.
After a yawn and a stretch, he clasps his hands over his belly and lets his eyelids fall. "Welp, suppose I'll catch another quick wink, then. You know what to do if you need me."
"Yes, Peppy, you will be happy to know I have been fine-tuning my panic subroutines."
Peppy snorts, tuning out the ambiance of the bridge and falling into a light doze. ROB's occasional keyboard pecks make his ears twitch, but he otherwise maintains the delicate balance between alertness and rest without issue and wakes himself up roughly thirty minutes later. The same display of the ship greets his eyes, largely unchanged save for a new note about increased uses of the water and electrical systems in the mess hall. "Looks like the boys are up," he says to no one in particular as he grabs his mug and brings it to his mouth.
In the wake of the warm chocolate coffee washing over his tongue and down his throat, clarity follows. His vision sharpens just a little bit more and he lets out a pleased sigh. He sets the mug back down on the terminal after taking another sip. "I sure wish I'd'a thought to use this cocoa mix sooner, cuz no amount of creamer and sugar can fix that cheap mudwater Fox insists on—"
An alarm—a combination of a siren and a whistle—rings out from the console serving as his footstool. "What the…" His feet drop to the deck with a thump and he leans forward to look at the screen they were formerly blocking. As he stares dumbfounded at the pulsing red text on the screen, ROB's monotonous voice announces the same warning over the ship's intercom.
"Celestial mass obstructing route; terminating lightspeed travel."
Great Fox shudders and lurches as the tunnel of light dissipates into countless white lines, which then contract into the minuscule pinpoints of distant stars. Peppy blinks and stares blankly out through the viewport, his indignance at a distinct lack of celestial mass all but instantly replaced with alarm at the massive crossfire of red and green laser beams surrounding and striking the ship.
"JUMPIN' JEHOSHAPHAT, IT'S AN AMBUSH!" Quickly regaining his composure, Peppy slaps a button with his left hand and brings Great Fox's shields up; his right hand just barely saves his coffee mug from sliding off its terminal. "ROB, GET US OUTTA HERE!"
"Acknowledged."
Numerous dots on the battle radar shift and whirl about as ROB pitches the ship up and launches forward in a full-throttled corkscrew. A quick scan of the damage reports shows a lot of mostly superficial damage to the hull and three of the wings. Three alarmed voices, all shouting over one another, ring out from a speaker mounted on the left armrest of Peppy's chair. "Stand by," he says absently, shifting his attention to the sensor displays. Several small ships had broken off in hot pursuit of Great Fox, but Peppy's concerns lay with the vast majority of the force still swarming around the point of re-entry. The sensors weren't picking up any new arrivals, so why is there still a crossfire?
A staccato burst of lasers hitting the aft shields jolts his thoughts back to more pressing matters. Peppy shunts power from the fore shields to reinforce them with a grunt. The seven or so fighters are still in hot pursuit; Peppy eyes the 'Scramble Arwings' button for a few seconds before shaking his head. While the boys are more than skilled enough to deploy at speed in a hot zone, Peppy's top priority is escaping the trap.
Maybe a show of force could deter these reprobates...
"Kill the engines, then throttle back up to forty percent after two seconds," Peppy commands, flipping a plastic safety cover and slamming the button beneath it. A small section of the footrest-slash-console opens up and the control yoke for the ship's T&B-H9 cannons slides up into his waiting hands. ROB instantly complies and stops the ship, allowing Peppy his first good look at one of the fighters through the targeting computer as it shoots past Great Fox with screaming engines. A spherical cockpit between two vertical panels; it looks sort of like a flying H. It dances and jukes around Peppy's aiming reticle, but he's quickly predicting the pilot's movements and starts zeroing in...
Two red bolts lance through the little fighter's cockpit just before Peppy fires, instantly obliterating it. Bemused, he watches the spinning wreckage drift away; was that friendly fire? No, that shot placement was way too deliberate and precise. Moments later, a pair of fighters—some sort of four-winged design that kind of looks like an old Wolfen assembled from drunken memory—lazily drift in front of the viewport. Reflexively, Peppy centers his reticle on the leftmost one but holds his fire. Whoever these pilots are, they're showing a great deal of trust in Great Fox; it's not like the ship's cannons are exactly hidden…
Sharp, high-pitched screeches emanate from the bridge's loudspeakers; Peppy cringes and just barely stops himself from ripping his ears off in agony before the noise cuts out a split second later.
"My apologies; I had attempted to hail their comms frequency," ROB says as the fighters dip their wings to each side before breaking away. "There is a sector-wide jamming in effect."
Peppy's ears and nose twitch as he checks the sensors. "Appreciate the initiative, but warn me next time," he mutters absently. They're effectively alone now—about three klicks removed from what he now recognizes as a battle between two opposing factions. "Can we jump out, now?"
"Negative," ROB answers, pressing a few buttons. "Navigational systems still report a celestial mass preventing entry into lightspeed travel. "
Indignance wells up within him as he checks their surroundings by way of external cameras. After double-checking the sector's star chart, he throws his hands up in exasperation. "What celestial mass!? There's nothing around here for parsecs!"
Several agonizingly silent seconds pass by as ROB conducts a series of long-range scans. It's not long before an image manifests in front of Peppy; three gray, wedge-shaped capital ships holding formation on the other side of the massive dogfight. He focuses on the center ship, mostly identical to the other two save for the bulging protuberances bowing out the lower and upper hulls around its conning tower. It was as though it had developed four massive, spherical tumors from within.
His mounting suspicions are confirmed when ROB speaks up, highlighting the middle ship within an orange rectangle. "Sensors indicate that this ship is generating an artificial gravity well that's preventing lightspeed travel. But if we maintain our current vector, we can escape in one minute and thirty-seven seconds. Your orders?"
Peppy's ears flatten and he quietly clacks his teeth for a moment. This wasn't their fight. But two pilots took time and fuel and whatever resource powering their lasers to pick off those other fighters and allow an escape. No bad guy would do that. And for that matter, no good guy would lay a trap like this.
"Bring us back around," he says, hitting the signal to scramble the arwings. "We're helping these guys out."
Sirens blare throughout the ship as the Star Fox team sprints to the hangar. Fox McCloud and Falco Lombardi are tied for the lead; despite his stubby legs, Slippy Toad's only a half-step or so behind them. Within twenty-three seconds of hearing the scramble alarm in the mess hall, Fox vaults into his arwing and dons his headset. The right half of his vision is bathed in green as he tunes into the team's frequency.
"What's the sitch, Old Timer," he queries, once again tying his pre-flight check speed time record. He'll break it one day. Falco's arwing has already exited the hangar; if he has G-Diffuser problems again, Fox'll have some choice razzing ammunition for the rest of their vacation...
A short pause, followed by a gulp and a soft sigh, answers him. He must've caught Peppy with a mouthful of coffee again. "We're returning a real solid, boys." A holographic image of three triangular ships appears off to his left as he launches out of the hangar and speeds off toward Falco. Moments later, the two flanking ships are labeled 'A' and 'B' while the lumpy one in the middle is designated as 'C'. "Ship C over there is using some sort of nasty gravity tech to pull folks outta lightspeed; taking it out is our main objective, but thinning out that OpFor won't hurt." Peppy pauses and a series of green-bracketed images of various cruisers and fighters cycles over a display on his right. "From ROB's analysis, these are our friendlies—there's some major signal jamming happening, though, so we can't hail their channels right now. Just try to shoot whatever they're shooting at so they know we're here to help. ROB'll feed ya more info when he can."
"Copy that." Fox pulls up to the left and slightly forward of Falco's arwing. Three seconds later, Slippy's arwing is holding left and slightly behind Fox. They maintain this standard formation as they orient their fighters level, relative to the distant capital ships, and calibrate their battle sensors. "Alright, team, set wings to all-range mode, and let's do what we do best!"
The trio throttle up and speed towards the swarming mass of fighters. "Jeez," Slippy says as they get a better view of the belligerents. "They're like bugs in a swamp..."
"You just had breakfast, buddy," Falco jeers and hits his thrusters, cutting across and to the left of Fox's view. "Try to stay focused!"
"'TrY tO sTaY fOcUsEd'," Slippy repeats in a mocking raspy falsetto, mirroring Falco's maneuver towards the right. "That's what you sound like," he grouses before firing a burst of twin blue laser beams. Two enemy ships explode under the salvo and a third takes a nasty glancing hit on one of its weird vertical panels before it peels away in retreat.
"That's an early lead for Slippy," Fox states matter-of-factly. "Maybe we should deny him caffeine more often if he's gonna keep shooting like that." In the green lens over his right eye. several blips are highlighted in red brackets as they break off toward him and fire their green lasers. He drifts slightly left to port before snapping right to starboard in a tight roll, deflecting most of the bolts while evading the rest. His answering shots go wide of the rightmost H-shaped craft, but the pilot veers away all the same. Fox slams the throttle forward and banks further starboard after the fleeing fighter, but is immediately forced back to port when a shower of green bolts rain down from above. Several enemy fighters dive through the spot he would have been if he'd committed to his pursuit, the screams of their engines ringing loudly in his ears.
"Wonder if all that noise is part of their tactics," he mutters to himself and dives at top speed in pursuit of a trio of H-fighters. The targeting reticle expands and glows red before locking onto the left fighter with a beep. It must be equipped with some sort of lock-on alarm; it pitches forward in a relative dive just as Fox releases a charged shot. Unfortunately for the pilot—and the hapless wingman that breaks off with them—the shot follows the fighter and bursts on contact, taking both of them out. The third H, before Fox could bring his reticle over it, comes under fire from a series of red lasers. One beam strikes just to the right of the spherical cockpit, severing the panel and sending the rest of the ship corkscrewing helplessly out of control before another shot finishes it off.
Sighing, Fox rolls his eyes and glances starboard for a better look at his kill-stealer. Feeling his hackles rise, he quickly tamps down a sudden urge to take evasive maneuvers once he realizes this four-winged starfighter is not a Wolfen. As he returns the thumbs up that the silhouetted pilot is giving him, he carefully notes its differences so he doesn't freak out like that again. This fighter has four laser cannons—one on the end of each wing—while a Wolfen only had two. It was less sleek. It had red markings instead of fuchsia. Some weird, swiveling dome thing is nestled just behind the cockpit; Fox could swear it was staring at him as the fighter veers off towards another section of the lightfight.
The arwing shudders violently when several shots strike its port side. After an instinctive roll of his craft, Fox curses and pushes the throttle back to maximum. He didn't remember slowing down before, but it must have been so he could better check out that other guy's fighter. He'll scold himself over it later; hopefully, Falco doesn't see this happening. The bogeys in pursuit are good—no matter how he jukes and weaves his way through the chaos of the greater firefight, they stick close to him. And despite the rolls he's forced to continuously execute, an occasional bolt slips in to score a small hit here and there.
Fox isn't helpless though; he can multitask. While performing a U-turn, he consults the radar. Blips of hostile ships are winking out regularly under Slippy and Falco's fire, but several enemies are forming up behind the latter. That won't do. Once the U-turn is complete, he predicts an intersection point with Falco and hits the thrusters in time to avoid some shots.
"Falco, buddy," he says into the comm. "Looks like you've got some mites on you."
"Yeah, I see 'em," comes Falco's reply, punctuated with a sigh that makes him sound more inconvenienced than worried. "You've got a case of fleas, yourself...scratch my back and I scratch yours?"
"Took the question right outta my mouth—link up at vector...point oh-three." Fox rolls his ship 'upside-down' and gives the thrusters another quick pop. Falco's distant arwing banks ferociously towards him with a glowing green ball of energy built up at its nose. Rather than charge a shot himself, Fox sweeps his reticle across the four bogeys tailing Falco's ship and rapidly taps the trigger. The four fighters following Falco all explode spectacularly under Fox's fire as Falco lets his charged shot fly, obliterating Fox's pursuers. They both look 'up' to nod at each other as they fly past one another.
"Great flyin', you two," Peppy proudly states over the communicator. ROB says something in the background, followed by an ear-piercing squealing. "Damnit, ROB, stop tryin' to hail 'em!" Fox grunts and digs a pinky into his ear while the older rabbit clears his throat. "I think we've thinned out enough baddies, so let's see about runnin' with those big boys now."
"Acknowledged; setting up an attack vector." Fox nods and falls into formation alongside Falco and glances to his left. A few more seconds pass and he checks the radar with a sigh. "I said 'setting up an attack vector,' Slippy."
There's a long pause before an exasperated croak rings out from the headset. "Alright, alright, I'm coming!" On the radar, numerous hostile blips wink out before the green arwing spins toward Fox and Falco's position.
Once Slippy's arwing is settled on Fox's port-side, he presses a couple buttons and feeds a suggested approach to the team. "We don't want more than one of those big suckers shooting us at once, so we're just attacking Ship A for now."
"Great Fox will draw their fire to the right," ROB adds.
Fox allows a pause in case Peppy or anyone else has an objection, then nods. "Good basic plan; let's move out!"
He had to give credit where credit was due; whoever was in charge of those massive capital ships was quick to issue orders. The two flanking ships speed up and tighten their formation to interpose themselves between the Star Fox Team's approach and the vessel keeping this trap going. Fox chews on his lower lip for a second before opening comms. "Peppy."
"I see it, Fox," Peppy answers in a contemplative tone. "I suggest we stick to the original plan, but flank out wider. ROB will take us starboard and loop back around to yer position and we can all concentrate on the left."
Fox opens his mouth to acknowledge but is startled when Slippy jumps in. "Bad idea, bad idea! We don't know what kinda firepower those things are packing. What if you stayed on the right flank and attack Ship B while we cross over to you?"
"Yeah, Slip's right," Falco says, for once not sounding resigned like he normally does when agreeing with the mechanic. "We're harder to hit; plus if they send more fighters at you, we can catch them from behind!"
"Alright, alright," Peppy concedes. "We'll do it that way then, 'cause we ain't got enough time to come up with another plan." Great Fox banks out hard to starboard and quickly falls out of sight. "You boys take care!"
With a steady hand on his controls, Fox takes a deep breath and watches the gargantuan Ship A steadily fill his viewport. As these were ships they'd never encountered before, the arwing's computer can only tell him some basic info, such as its length of sixteen hundred meters—nearly twice the length of Great Fox.
A tinny banging sound emanates from Slippy's channel. "Stupid computer...I can't analyze their—WHOA!"
The expansive hull's dull gray is replaced by intense bright green light as the capital ship's forward batteries open fire. Fox instinctively rolls to port and steeply noses down to return fire. He pays little concern to the lack of damage he's dealt and pulls up in time to avoid impact and instead skim along the capital ship's surface. Numerous turrets spin towards him and open fire, but most of their shots are flying through the open vacuum at his aft while he jukes, dances, and rolls about. Other turrets are turning and firing in other directions, and he fires at them when he can. There's no room in his mind to formulate warnings or orders; he'll just have to trust in his teammates' skills to see this through.
"Great Fox is in position," ROB's voice announces as Fox readies a charged shot. Moments later, he pulls up and lets it fly at the conning tower looming at the ship's aft. The shot, along with the lasers he fires behind it, dissipates against the deflector shields but at least their bridge's viewports are briefly obscured...he thinks, anyway.
Once he completes strafing the ship, he banks far to port and allows himself a moment to consult the radar and take a visual of his surroundings. Falco and Slippy's readings are still in decent condition, and Great Fox is opening fire on Ship B. Ship A is trying to reposition itself so its turrets can support Peppy's target, but ROB's fine-point maneuvering is making perfect cover out of Ship B's massive bulk.
"Alright, team, let's hit these things from below now. Watch for fighters!" Fox noses down and slams his throttle to full speed. For good measure, he holds down the thruster button when Ship A's starboard emplacements start firing at him. Just as the craft's edge is cleared, he slams on the arwing's brakes and levels out with a tight corkscrew toward Great Fox.
Fox isn't entirely sure which sign of trouble he registers first. It was either the mechanical groans of protest behind the cockpit or the steadily increasing force of inertia pressing him into his seat and forcing the breath from his lungs. Order of notice ultimately doesn't matter, because both signs point directly to one source: the G-Diffuser system. If not for the fact that g-forces would send his own fist flying back into his face, he'd have punched his viewport in frustration. Instead, he starts easing the throttle down; his trained ears are telling him the G-Diffusers are just overheating from all of the stress he's been putting on them, rather than breaking down completely. All he'll need to do is slow down for a bit and they'll cool off.
Even with that minor deceleration, Fox is already starting to feel the inertia letting up. Once it's easier to breathe, he opens the comms channel. "Hey guys, can you take point for a minute? I need to slow—oh you've gotta be kidding me!"
Ahead, squads of fighters swarm out from the belly hangars of all three capital ships. Dodging shots from those clunky batteries in his compromised state was one thing, but this new element was extremely worrying. Biting back a curse, Fox banks slightly to port and starts an agonizingly inefficient arching approach to Great Fox. Even leaning heavily with the turn, the malfunctioning G-Diffuser allows enough inertia to bash his head into the starboard side of his viewport. He shakes his head to disperse the stars in his eyes as approaching fighters scream towards him.
All he needs to do is get out from under these two ships to reach the relative safety of Peppy's covering fire.
At least three fighters are taken out from the charged shot that sails in from his left flank. A protracted burst of twin blue lasers from the right flank rakes across more fighters, taking out five and making one more bank into the bolts Fox is lamely firing straight ahead. A split second later, Slippy and Falco's arwings form up side-by-side before him, a far more miniature version of the big ships' formation. At least they heard enough of his last transmission.
"When we get back home," Falco growls, rolling his ship counter-clockwise to deflect a barrage of enemy fire. "We're gonna shell out for some real upgrades—these G-Diffusers suck!"
Slippy sighs, rolling his ship clockwise for the same reason. "I've done what I could; not my fault we've got a cheapskate holding the purse strings."
"Less talking budget, more taking out these screamy boys," Fox grunts out and lets loose a charged shot. The four fighters he dumb-fired it at all break away in different directions. He squints at one of them as it flits away; it's a variation of the previous H-fighters they were dealing with. The side panels of these new things are angled slightly inward on both sides—resembling a sphere between two parenthesis from behind—and extend forward past the cockpit in four, vicious-looking triangles. Though he couldn't get a good sense of the H-fighters' speed in the earlier firefight, he'd bet good money these new guys were faster and better-armed.
He gingerly throttles up again and grunts before easing back to his previous speed. "I still need time to cool this thing down—" A startled yelp swallows up the rest of his words as a flurry of green beams fly past him from behind. At least four hit his aft shields, dropping his meter further toward red. Instinctively, he executes his own roll. Although this keeps his ship safe, the whirling physics leaves him dizzy and nauseous. Through great effort, he forces the bile down and groans into his comms. "Taking fire...from my six...can't roll again..."
"On it," Slippy slams his brakes and drops back, quickly leaving Fox's sight. The vacuum of space behind him, primarily lit up with flashes of green, briefly flares blue and orange as the mechanic shoots down a few pursuers and scatters the rest. While Slippy's doing this, Falco maneuvers his arwing above and to the left to better shield Fox against incoming fighters and turret blasts. It's not the first time they've taken on this escort formation, but they're moving far too slow with too little coverage for a limping arwing that can barely turn.
With a deep breath, he steels himself and grips the throttle. "Falco, Slippy; prepare to break formation—I'm going to make a run for it."
Falco's scoff rings tinny over the comm. "C'mon, Fox, I don't think that's wise—"
"We're flying in a straight line at one-third's speed," Fox snaps. "You guys can only draw them off for so long before they realize I'm crippled so I'm going right now!"
Three-quarter's speed isn't ideal, but it's the most the malfunctioning G-Diffuser can handle without suffering further damage. The same cannot be said for Fox; all the inertia once again pressing him into his seat makes breathing extremely difficult. Seconds later, he starts feeling light-headed and more than a little drowsy as darkness tunnels his vision. In fact, he really wants nothing more than to close his eyes, let go of the controls, and simply let his arwing take him where it pleases—No! With a start, he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and blinks away sudden and strange visions of paper airplanes and a huge slot machine; he's still got work to do. The awful coppery taste filling his mouth keeps him more alert while he maintains a death grip on his controls and occasionally flicks his eyes about to take in readings on his sensors and other instruments. Directly ahead is the far edge of Ship B and, beyond that, lays Great Fox. Behind him, Falco and Slippy are doing all they can to shield him from the pursuing squadron and laser turrets. But the infinitely more pressing threats are the groups of fighters coming in hot from both port and starboard in a classic pincer attack. That starboard group must have been called back from that first firefight...
Gritting his teeth, Fox nudges the throttle forward and noses his arwing down a few degrees. With any amount of luck, even that little trajectory change might throw their aim off just enough to allow him a chance to escape. If not, this is going to get so, so ugly.
So much for luck. Those damn screaming engines herald the arrival of the port-side fighters and the green flashes of their weaponry as they pepper Fox's ship. Harsh alarms blare as his meter drops well into the red and the arwing bucks in protest. As he snaps off one last defensive roll, he catches a dizzying glimpse of the fighters swooping in from starboard to finish the job. The mere sight of those four-winged clunkers brings a vicious sneer to his face, the rising bile from his stomach staved off only by furious rage clenching every one of his muscles—
Wait. Four wings?
Glorious red bolts fill the vacuum above and below his arwing, severing panels and punching through spherical cockpits alike. Amidst explosions and drifting fuselages, he finally clears the edge of Ship B's underside and makes his escape. Only when Falco and Slippy also reach relatively open space does he finally allow himself to relax. Fatigue sets deep into his very bones as he cuts his speed to one-quarter and starts a long, lazy arc toward Great Fox. Falco and Slippy fly alongside him for most of his retreat before peeling away to support his saviors' skirmish with those fresh fighters. Once he positions his ship alongside Great Fox, he slumps in his seat and closes his eyes.
A private comms channel opens. "How ya holdin' up, kid," Peppy asks, ceasing his steadily slowing barrage of the Ship B. It's clear why he's letting up; the friendly snubfighters are boldly flitting in front of and around his line of fire, and the last thing the team needs is a friendly fire incident ruining their goodwill. There's already considerable damage to the capital ship's port side, anyway. Its hull sports numerous scorch marks, many of which are venting flames due to leaking atmosphere, and interior lights are out in several areas.
Fox takes a deep breath, keeping a casual eye on his arwings diagnostics. It'll only be a minute or so before the G-Diffuser cools off and he can join his friends out on their strafing runs. "Tired," he admits, letting his head flop back and closing his eyes. "The least these jerks could've done is set their trap another hour or so out."
"Yeah, I hear that," Peppy agrees with a wry chuckle. "But then we wouldn't be here to bail our new buddies out!" The rabbit hums thoughtfully. "And then those ships would lay in wait for their next victims...hell, we'd prolly be fighting 'em alone, in that case."
Apart from a grunt of grudging agreement, Fox is silent. Those odds sure would have sucked. His right leg bounces restlessly as he monitors the progress of the G-Diffuser system as well as the recharge rate of his shields. They won't be full by the time he can return to the fight, but they should be more than enough to handle another possibly protracted fight. He tenses up when a group of those faster fighters turns in his general direction, only to relax when Slippy cuts them off and wards them away.
Fox had to admit, that frog was putting in some serious work today. Maybe he'll take less coffee in the future...
Peppy's low whistle of appreciation is tinny from the comms channel. "Ooh, look at that..." The channel switches to the team's frequency with a click. "Heads up, boys—looks like the cavalry's here!"
Curious, Fox looks up from his readings and peers through the viewport. Just as Peppy said, numerous ships are streaming in from the direction of the initial conflict. Most of them are that four-winged design, but there's a smattering of other distinct shapes among them. Some appear slow and bulky, but there are also some compact designs that look quick and nimble enough to maybe—maybe—match an arwing's maneuverability. Way off in the distance are the faint specks of various cruisers slowly moving through that first battlefield, probably recovering casualties and salvaging wreckage.
Hopefully, there aren't too many good guys among those casualties...
The arwing's computer chimes and the G-Diffuser's reading flashes green. Fox lets out a relieved sigh and throttles up to join the fight. "Best green thing I've seen all day," he mutters to himself before opening comms. "I'm coming back in, team," he pauses a moment to predict the reinforcements' flight path. "Falco, Slippy, form up on me—we're gonna hit that first ship again. ROB, I need you to bring Great Fox below their formation and start putting pressure on that gravity ship."
"Acknowledged; repositioning," ROB replies as Great Fox noses down and starts accelerating. Falco and Slippy's representations on the radar turn towards Fox as he angles for Ship B's conning tower. A few of its remaining port-side turrets turn towards him and sporadically fire, but they're way too sluggish to keep up with his movements. Scant meters away from the bridge, he banks sharply to port and cuts across the widest part of the triangular craft. Many more turrets on the starboard side of this ship whip around to fire upon him, and he sighs in relief when his defensive roll doesn't subject him to any adverse physics. Up ahead, the port side of Ship A looms into view. Many of its turrets pivot towards him, only to suddenly turn away and return fire at the barrage of red bolts streaking in from its front.
"Topside's too spicy—let's hit this sucker from below," Fox clears the starboard edge of Ship B and noses down in a steep dive. He pulls up seconds later and speeds straight for the underside of Ship A. With all the additional hostile fighters, as well as whatever guns Ship C can bring to bear, it's technically a worse position down here. But at least here he knows there won't be as much crossfire from friendlies.
Falco and Slippy pull up behind him in their typical triangle formation. "What're we doing now," the latter asks.
Fox drums his fingers on his controls while almost casually dodging incoming lasers and returning fire. "I want to keep as many eyes on us as possible, but we need to make ourselves a threat." Smirking, he flips up the plastic safety cover crowning his flight stick with a thumb, exposing a pulsing red button. "Ready your Nova Bombs, team," he says and hits his boosters. "We're going to hit that rear hangar on the underside!"
His squadmates both acknowledge his orders and rearrange themselves into a loose single-file formation behind him. Amidst hostile fighters moving to intercept, as well as a steady stream of green lasers firing from Ship A's belly turrets, Fox leads his team in a side-to-side serpentine maneuver. The instant he thinks the enemy's about to get a read on their movements, he starts incorporating sporadic dips and rises into the pattern. Falco and Slippy expertly follow the motions without question or complaint, taking occasional potshots at fighters and turrets whenever the opportunity arises. With the yawning square hangar filling the entirety of his viewport, he straightens out his approach and activates his boosters.
There's at least a little contempt driving Fox's thumb down onto the launch button. "Bomb released," he reports, banking port towards Ship A's front end with a defensive roll to cover his six. A wistful sigh of regret escapes him; it sure would have been nice to witness the detonation of his bomb, but he can at least watch the show put on by the others while he starts another attack run. He pulls off a tight, inverted U-turn and reorients himself just in time to witness the fading blue flash of Slippy's ordnance. Those first two bombs must've taken out the shields there, because Falco's payload flies straight into the hangar. Despite this thing shooting at him and sending out all those annoying fighters, Fox can't help a sympathetic wince and hissed intake of breath as a brilliant blast of blue energy vents out from the hanger in a violent explosion that rocks the massive craft from bow to stern. Pinpricks of light from countless viewports along the ship's underside likewise flare blue before ultimately darkening. Most important, though, is the sudden silence of its laser batteries.
"Man, I wanted to take that sucker out. Shoulda made you take point," Fox mutters, taking his ship in a lazy circle to observe the hostile fighters. There's a significant reduction in their numbers, and many of the remaining ships are aimlessly flying about. At least the distraction worked, but it's only a matter of time before these hornets came back to their senses.
"You can promote me any time, Boss," Falco smugly replies and breaks off after some hostiles.
"Yeah, right," Fox scoffs and dives to avoid a sudden flurry of green bolts. "We have a good brand going for us."
Slippy's snort registers as a burst of static. "Agreed; I don't think 'Starbird' hits the same. Who would fly under that symbol?"
"Alright, I get it!"
Rolling his eyes, Fox shifts his concentration towards the battle at large. Ship A is a lost cause; the massive craft lazily rises in a perpetual climb of inertia propelled by Falco's bomb. Like fleas off of an animal, tiny dots of escape pods streak away from the dying craft. On the other side of the formation, Ship B is still technically functional. But with only a little over half of its laser batteries still operational, most of the friendly fighters are ignoring it, save for the occasional pair swooping in for a harassing run. Oddly enough, Ship C still stands its ground, steadily rolling to keep a fresh section of its shields in front of Great Fox's cannons as it futilely returns fire.
"ROB," he says as he U-turns to pursue the fighter that landed a couple of lucky shots while he was distracted. "Is that gravity field still active?"
"Affirmative. Sensors indicate that it has maintained full strength for the duration of this skirmish."
His ears flatten in annoyance; the fighter he's chasing is doing a damn good job at eluding his shots. "Why aren't they retreating? Any idiot can see this fight's over, now."
"For all the people in the known universe," Slippy glumly says. "Andross couldn't possibly have been the only sore loser out there."
"I've been thinking about that," Peppy mutters. "Maybe they can't afford to go back defeated."
Fox smirks, finally getting a proper lock on his target and he lets a charged laser do the rest. "Feeling sympathetic, Old Timer?"
"Hell no," Peppy spits, punctuating those two words with a shot from Great Fox that dissipates against Ship C's shields. "They won't get that luxury until they surrender, like those people in the escape pods did."
As more and more friendly fighters filter into the fray, Fox starts easing back to let them have a shot at the remaining hostiles. This allows him to divert more attention towards observation rather than actively fighting. While threading through the midst of fighters and red/blue/green laser bolts, it was his repeated glances towards the one-sided exchange between Great Fox and Ship C that brought on the unease worming its way through his guts. The sporadic pressure ROB and Peppy were putting on that massive ship allowed plenty of space to back off and surrender—this is even more evident when Peppy suddenly stops firing and starts flashing the running lights instead. If anything, that only seems to intensify Ship C's returning fire.
"Welp," Peppy grunts with finality. "I tried. Either their commander can't recognize or won't take the out I'm giving 'em." The rabbit's voice goes just a little bit quieter as he (presumably) looks over his shoulder to address ROB. "Set reverse; looks like our friends are forming for an attack run." The voice returns to its usual volume. "They prolly won't fault you boys for coming back aboard now, but…"
"Don't worry, Peppy," Fox says with a nod. "We'll pull escort duty and see this through."
"Transmitting rally point," ROB states, highlighting a section of Fox's radar display.
Nodding to himself, Fox throttles up and speeds along the suggested vector, which doubles back away from Ship C. While weaving around friendly and hostiles alike, he lets out a whistle of appreciation upon spotting the attacking force. Twelve of those four-winged snubfighters had arranged themselves into three diamond formations and were heading straight for the gravity ship. Nearly all of them sport a red and gray color scheme, save for one white and green number leading the starboard group. Fox overshoots the greater formation, executes a U-turn, and slips behind the center diamond. The lead fighter dips its wings in acknowledgment, allowing him a brief glimpse of the faded gold paint accenting its wings and nose.
"Alright boys, pick a diamond to cover," he says, easing his throttle back to sixty-four percent so he can match their speed. Hopefully, this isn't the top speed of these fighters. Slippy and Falco settle in behind the port and starboard diamonds respectively, each acknowledging his orders as they do so. Many more friendlies join the formation; several set up a loose perimeter around the three diamonds, but the majority form into a column some distance behind them as they pass.
He can't help feeling at least a little giddy; he wants to know the offensive capabilities of these people, and he's riding the tip of their spear!
As it turns out, thankfully, this isn't their top speed. Fox barely notices the brighter emissions of the lead ship's engines and throttles up just in time to stay in formation. Seventy-seven percent throttle isn't the worst difference in the world. It at least allows his team plenty of wiggle room to speed ahead and put down an incoming threat if need be. Not that that's necessary; most of the hostiles seem to finally recognize the writing on the wall and hang back or even attempt to flee. This doesn't stop a few remaining truly devoted morons from still trying their luck, but the perimeter of more nimble fighters breaks away to quickly shut down the offense. Meanwhile, the diamond formations implacably maintain their approach vector.
Finally, amidst a few annoying firefights crisscrossing in front of and around them, the formation fires. Twenty-four searing white-pink projectiles, two from each fighter, burn bright against the gray backdrop of Ship C's hull as they fly toward it. Within seconds after launch, each pair of warheads angles inward slightly. Fox eyeballs their rough trajectories and whistles again; so these fighters can get firing solutions from each other's targeting systems...that's a handy little trick.
Slippy vocalizes the same realization that suddenly hits Fox. "Those are all heading for the bridge—Last chance for that crew to hop out before the pot boils..."
Despite their best attempts, Ship C's gunner crews are only able to shoot down a few of the missiles before the first ones hit. For one fraction of a split-second, nearly imperceptible to Fox's trained eyes, the conning tower's deflector shields flash brilliantly against the ordnances' detonations before all but immediately dissipating. Pair after pair after pair of missiles then slam into the unprotected bridge, engulfing it in an ever-expanding plume of exploding energy. Fox can't even tell the damn thing is destroyed until the massive ship starts listing towards its starboard side, long before the collective explosions begin to dissipate.
Fox isn't sure if this thing has a backup command station, so he keeps his guard up as he cruises in for a better look. That conning tower is totally destroyed; all that remains of the structure are twisted, blackened girders poking up from a jagged fissure in the ship's main body and chunks of drifting debris floating where it once presided. As the ship continues its lazy roll, he spots the emissions of numerous escape pods and small shuttles streaking out from the underside. Frowning, he turns to his computer and consults Great Fox's database. This whole battle took place in some random pocket of empty space with no planetary systems even remotely close by...the people in the shuttles are probably going to be alright, but those in the pods must be extremely desperate to get away and take their chances as prisoners. Fox wasn't even sure if these friendlies would take prisoners.
Buzzing, warbly static from the comms channel jolts him back to the present. He's just about to mute it when an unfamiliar man's voice suddenly emerges from the distortion. "—ink I finally found their frequency." The man clears his throat and continues in a flat, somewhat more authoritative tone. "Attention, unidentified fighters: clear the area around that Interdictor. I repeat—unidentified fighters..."
"Oh, uh, acknowledged," Fox finally answers, immediately banking out towards starboard. Faint snickering from Slippy's frequency elicits an annoyed roll of the eyes as he heads for Great Fox, which drifts adjacent to the attack squadron's triple diamond formation. Once he and his wingmen are apparently far enough away from Ship C, the previous column of ships starts its collective attack run. A vanguard of bulky gray and yellow fighters that sort of look like right-angled slingshots or maybe some kind of goalposts from above leads the charge, followed by a retinue of unarmed transports in tight formation. It's not long before the clunkers slowly swarm over the derelict ship, peppering its unshielded hull with blue lasers that leave faint arcs of electricity where they hit.
"Standard disable-and-boarding procedures," the man's voice continues before Fox could question things. "There probably aren't too many holdouts still on board, but Imperials are a lot more brutal these days when it comes to deserters. So—" the voice suddenly turns casual. "—those're some real fancy ships you got there...who are we, ah, thanking for turning this ambush around?"
For a brief instant, Fox considers making something up before ultimately deciding on the truth. "Star Fox Team, at your service," he says with no small amount of pride. "And I think your outfit helped us out first, so let's just call it even."
"Fair enough," the man chuckles. "I think that was Janson and Darklighter that picked those first Eyeballs off of you."
"Good thing they did, then," Peppy chimes in, likewise chuckling. "We might not've stuck around if we had to fight our own way out—hell, we didn't know who to shoot at first!"
"Really, now," another man spoke up, genuine surprise coloring his words. "Usually takes a lot more than vaping a few TIEs to convince someone to fling themselves against three Star Destroyers..."
"Not bad for our first day, huh," Falco grunts out in a way that suggests he's lacing his hands behind his head and kicking his feet up.
The comms channel falls silent. Fox is fairly certain they're talking amongst themselves, and part of him wonders if there's a recruitment spiel being suggested. He's not keen on breaking the silence, though, instead taking a moment to watch the action around the Interdictor. It looks like only a few of the transports are boarding the massive, wedge-shaped ship. The others are combing the space surrounding the ship, probably on pod recovery duty. A slow rotation of his arwing shows him a similar number of transports heading for Ship B. It looks like this is going to take hours...hopefully, his team isn't expected to stick around for the duration because this whole thing's gone on for far too long already.
"So," a woman's voice breaks the silence, dragging the word out over a couple of seconds. "What brings your team to this part of the galaxy?"
Fox's ears twitch; there's something different about her voice, at least compared to the other two guys. But his curiosity will have to wait for now. "Same thing that brought your convoy here, I'd bet," he says evenly.
"What did you guys call it," Slippy asks. "An intersector?"
The woman chuckles. "Interdictor, which is a class of Star Destroyer. They're not much more than a nuisance on their own, but an escort of two Imperial-Class II Destroyers usually makes an encounter with them a lot more...troublesome." She hums in thought for a moment. "You know, the New Republic could sure use ships of your capabilities—"
There it is. Despite sitting alone in his arwing, Fox can't help raising his hand. "Afraid we can't do that, Miss. We're currently on leave, and also not in a position to speak on behalf of our system."
"...And here I thought Bothans are supposed to be good at negotiating," the second man says after a long moment of silence, the grin clearly heard in his voice. "But rest assured, Miss Sei'lar, your secret is safe with us."
"All due respect, Janson," Sei'lar dryly retorts. "But shut your maw."
"Agreed," the first man interjects with equal parts amusement and annoyance. "Shut your maw, Lieutenant."
"Yub yub, Commander," Janson crisply replies.
Sighing, the first man continues. "Well, we won't keep you and your team here, Mister..."
"McCloud," Fox supplies.
"McCloud," the man slowly repeats. "Got it. But before you leave, McCloud, please at least allow us to transmit an official application for your system to join the New Republic, should your leadership feel so inclined. Coordinates and frequencies for any emissaries you might send will be included among the documents, as well as a reference from myself."
"Sounds like you're a pretty big deal in this 'New Republic', Commander..."
The man hums a short laugh. "So I'm told. Name's Antilles."
Nodding, Fox heads for Great Fox's hangar. "Well uh, Commander Antilles, I can't guarantee anything will happen, but we'll kick this application up the line and see that it gets to the right people."
"That's all we can ask," Antilles says with a slightly disappointed tone that Fox couldn't blame him for. "Good luck to you all."
Back in the safety—no, relative safety, apparently—of lightspeed travel, Peppy scrolls through the contents of the New Republic recruitment packet while ROB analyzes combat data from the arwings. The biggest letdown within the packet's material is easily the location of their capitol system; this Coruscant place is just way too far away from the Lylat System for either party to benefit from one another—especially in a war effort. But maybe some sort of trade agreement could be reached, at least going off how impressed the friendlies seemed about the arwings. Oh, he'll still submit all this to the Cornerian government when they return, but he has major doubts. At least their symbol, a sort of swooping symmetrical blue crest surrounded by fifteen stars, looks neat.
Much more intriguing is the section containing the reference from that Antilles fellow. Not only were his accolades and accomplishments listed, but so were the bonafides of all eleven of his squadmates. Missions, campaigns, notable battles, kill counts—all that and more were listed under their individual photos. Separating fact from propaganda might be a fun way to kill a day or so while they're still in lightspeed.
"'Co-founder of Rogue Squadron, founder of Wraith Squadron,'" Peppy reads aloud, punctuating the first sentence of Antilles's bio with a whistle. "Fella's got a knack for naming, that's for sure. Let's see, now..." After skimming over entries for several plain humans and a few extremely unfamiliar species, he pulls up Sei'lar's profile with a curious hum. "Well, well...what do we have here?"
A smirking black-furred woman, with an accenting white slash of a mark around her left violet eye, stares out from the main screen. His initial knee-jerk thought is astonishment at finding a Lylatian this far removed from the system, and flying in an apparently elite squadron with all the diversity of a college leaflet. But it only takes a second's worth of further scrutiny to realize her appearance is just as alien as it is familiar. Her feline features—lynx-like ears and perhaps a pantherish nose—seamlessly blend in with her very canine (or possibly equine) snout to suggest some sort of hybrid species...something he's never ever seen back home, even with all the different variants of its inhabitants.
Any further attempt at armchair gene sequencing is thankfully interrupted as the boys tromp into the bridge with varying degrees of morale. Fox, holding an ice bag to the right side of his head, slumps at his usual seat with a groan while Slippy hops onto his messy workstation's chair and takes a long pull from the enormous insulated mug in his hands. And Falco, with an air of smug satisfaction about him, simply leans against the entryway's frame and folds his arms.
His headache seemingly forgotten, Fox lowers the ice pack and turns an analytical gaze onto Sei'lar's picture. "Huh, guess that explains why they had her talk to us," he finally mutters after a long pause.
When another long pause fails to elicit a follow-up, Peppy's whiskers twitch and his ears flatten. "Got something to share with the rest of the class," he finally demands.
Fox quickly looks to Peppy and winces from the motion, instantly returning the ice pack to his head. "Right, sorry," he sighs and leans back. "That one stretch of comms silence while we were all chatting—I think they were trying to pick someone to talk to us, and now I see why she got voluntold, 'cause the way she pronounced some things sounded familiar."
Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Peppy turns back to the main screen and nods after a few seconds. "Hmm...an on-the-spot emissary to develop rapport. That makes sense, that makes sense. Anyway—" he reaches over and hits a button to switch the screen to a blank display. "—ROB should be finished running the numbers by now, so let's get those counts and y'all can go back to your video games or whatever."
"Statistics confirmed," ROB announces in agreement, tapping on his keyboard. "Sending tallies."
Peppy gestures towards the main screen with all the flare of a game show host. "Read 'em and weep, boys!"
FOX: 21
FALCO: 30
SLIPPY: 44
Even with them stumbling in mid-battle, the sum of the team's hits isn't surprising; the arwings are just that damn good. Equally unsurprising is each pilot's reaction to their individual counts. Fox's resigned sigh, Falco's surprised spluttering, and Slippy's single 'HA' all perfectly reflect the numbers on the screen.
After a moment, Fox shrugs and gets to his feet. "Given my technical difficulties, I'm surprised I got that many." Sketching a lazy salute, he heads for the entryway. "Think I'm gonna go lay back down." He gives Falco's shoulder a slow pat as he exits, and Peppy's ears can just barely pick up him whispering "Silver's not so bad, man; just let him have this."
Peppy waits until Falco, deflating with a sigh, stalks out of the bridge before turning his attention to Slippy. "Ya did real good out there, kid," he says with a proud smile. "What was your secret?"
Beaming, Slippy peers over his shoulder at the entryway and takes another sip of coffee. "Well...don't tell the guys," he says, his smile turning sheepish as he turns back to Peppy. "But while they were forming up for that second attack run, figured I'd do a little extra P.R. work for our new friends before I got in formation!"
An arched eyebrow turns Peppy's smile from proud to knowing. "Ahh, so you were padding out your count, I get it now." He levels the expression at an increasingly uncomfortable-looking Slippy for a few seconds before winking and ambling back over to his station. "Tell ya what—your secret's safe with me, long as you don't disturb my nap," he says as he once again flops into his chair and leans back. "Oh, and make sure ROB doesn't run into any more gravity wells, will ya?"
"Aye aye," Slippy exclaims.
"I have no control over such occurrences," ROB quietly remarks, the last thing Peppy hears before dozing off.
Author's Note (08/29/2024): Hey, thanks for giving this big ol' one-shot a look! Had the concept rattling around in my head for a while, and finally got it published. Shout-out to SmashBro37 for coming up with the title—you rock dude!