Come il mare, sei sommerso
Like the ocean, you are drowned. Fox finds himself on a mission, a strange mission he struggles to understand.
Like the ocean, you are drowned. Fox finds himself on a mission, a strange mission he struggles to understand.
A/N: I had a strange dream the other night. It was strange in that my dreams typically don't utilize media/fandom symbols. But I woke with the compulsion to dust off my pen, so I made it coherent, and stopped neglecting my SoFurry account. I have no idea how to tag, so any suggestions to improve them would be appreciated, along with general feedback.
Come il mare, sei sommerso
The Marvelous Phantasm, Arshevieth Myvdiviev
Lights dimmed, murmurs hushed. A spotlight shone, the curtains drew back. It was billed as an opera playing out the tragedy of Zoness, a "waters' fall from grace." Which, having flown there within recent memory, Fox found it a trite albeit accurate description of events. Besides, had enough time passed for it to be talked about as a historical subject? For all he was concerned, the Aparoid invasion might as well have been part of the Lylat Wars with how close they were. And the dust hadn't even settled from that, either.
Well, more and more services and establishments began to resume operations throughout Corneria. Things must've been peaceful enough. That was a question better answered by Peppy or Slippy. They were more the appreciators of fine art, anyway.
Fox wondered how they were doing, and the lady on the stage belted out her own laments. They'd all been talking about a boys' night out as it is. Perhaps there had been enough time, after all. General Pepper contracted the team less and less, and for smaller and smaller mercenary jobs. Such as this. "We don't want the public to see soldiers if they don't have to," some lieutenant who pointedly was not General Pepper said in the brief. "Blend in."
To that end, when the team spoke with the owner of the theater, some manner of vague canid from somewhere, he had asked her to give the team clearances and disguises so they could act as ushers. But she had insisted that the staff's full cooperation was all she could give. And for someone who contacted a not-low-ranking military officer directly somehow, she sure was sparse with the cooperation. An anonymous bomb threat, but with no leads as to possible enemies, no report of when and how she found out the threat - hell, she said she didn't know if the threat mentioned a specific timeframe or made any demands.
He probably should've cut her some slack. It was a frightening situation for anyone. But when Fox called upon his own mysterious contacts in the Cornerian military, he was informed that there weren't any bomb specialists available. It'd make sense if they were all taking care of other situations, but giving the benefit of the doubt seemed implausible for the protocol of critical emergencies. A different ranking officer said they were sending ahead personnel to start evacuation, but they hadn't shown up by the time his team had. So much for blending in.
Suspicious circumstances aside, the opera house was located in a very central district of Corneria City proper. Apparently the idea was to sweep the area for the bombs, while the military outfit hopefully followed their tails and began evacuation. "The hell are they thinking?!" Falco complained, rightfully, when they grounded and entered. "We're gonna evacuate first." Fox gave his blessing, and they ran into the main auditorium. He was immediately stricken by the sheer amount of people and the pre-show chatter. By quick estimate, there were... so many. Tightly packed in. He remembered seeing such an amount somewhere before. His gut remembered that he did not want to remember.
Falco mumbled something as he skirted by Fox. His grip was already latched onto the back of his jacket. "No. Too chaotic."
"You crazy?" he spat under his breath, wrenching his feathers free. Passing a glance over the crowd, he locked eyes with Fox. The time it took for him to give an exasperated sigh was enough to change his mind. "Tch. Fine. I'll start with the perimeter."
Falco dashed off, and Fox made a percursory survey of his surroundings. It really was going to be a nightmare to navigate, between the mass of bodies the audience constituted, maintaining stealth, and prioritizing safety and speed. He'd seen himself through more impossible odds before. Faced off with Andross's galactic ego. All to save innocents. Those kinds of reminders have crept up on him more often lately. Although, what counted as lately? Piecing together time was something he found himself doing noticeably just as often. Lately.
No, Fox. Concentrate. He found himself reassessing the room, a more organized and dimly lit room, a singer singing, those bodies seated and watching. The texture of his sensor made its weight known in his grasp, flailing around in something not unlike a methodical pattern. At least, until it vibrated and produced a holographic readout. Graphs of certain waveforms, diagrams that didn't make sense. Slippy once long ago tried to explain the science behind it back when he first joined the team. Always lit up animated and excited when gushing about radioactive particles, electromagnetic waves, astrosomething whatevers, and other things that Fox could only feel confident about Slippy's new life as a professor at the Academy.
Whenever energies change, go investigate. That was the advice he took away every time. And the sensor had been pointed at some back entrance near the stage. A cloaked figure, with some sort of device giving off a blue-white light. They looked intently at the stage. Probably an actor readying his prop for his part. Operas featured fight scenes, right?
Fox swept the sensor across the rest of the room, to no other abnormal readings. The lady finished her beautiful wailing, and he stepped towards the exit. There was indeed a cloaked actor leaping onto the stage, brandishing some sort of mock weapon. There was also a cloaked figure standing in the same spot from before. The hood made their own sweeps around the room, and a singular eye trained itself on Fox.
Snap out of it, damn it. This was a mission. He screwed his eyes shut to recenter. A lot of operas had opera masks, and opera glasses, and opera phantoms. Right? He took Krystal to an opera before. This shouldn't have been news to him.
Both cloaks had disappeared.
There was a certain awe Fox held for his instincts, the same ones that had flipped open his communicator and put two and two together before he did. He could almost hear Krystal berate him for acting as batshit insane as the whole situation, and she would have if she hadn't all of a suddenly returned to Sauria after that night he took her to the opera.
Fox's fingers found Wolf's contact, and pressed it.
When the "connecting..." message closed, the screen garbled and glitched, and every single patron's communicator erupted into garbled and glitched noises. Whoever on stage was screaming their tragedies of witnessing toxic waste unceremoniously dumped on their paradise did their damnedest to drown out the other tragic noises, but the electronic screeching overtook them. This was probably what Peppy would've called tragic irony.
From behind the door, he heard what he thought was the flaps of a cloak. The instant he shoved it open, Wolf's voice crackled collectively. "Attention: Bombs were detected on the premises. Please evacuate in an orderly and rapid fashion. The police are incapacitated. I repeat: Bombs were detected."
Shit.
He ran ahead of hell breaking loose behind, and ran his scanner along the walls. Of course it was Wolf. That alliance was temporary. Too short. It died with the Aparoid Queen. What the hell was he thinking?
All attempts to call Falco and update him were met with silence. The same silence, it felt, the sensor reported for each room he broke into. Door by door. Everything checked out.
Until he barged in on a scene that made the most sense out of this crazed series of events. Falco was unconscious and bloodied. The theater owner was pinned against a sofa. And Wolf crammed his blaster in her face. He was snarling some manner of words that Fox assumed was his usual gloating and posturing.
Fox unholstered his own blaster, and Wolf's head snapped back, gun still trained on his target. "Stop." He thrust the firearm towards Wolf. "Now."
He cursed under his breath. "I'm not the one behind this-"
A beam grazed his muzzle. "Get out."
Wolf grimaced from the sting. "She's," his gestured with his gun. "The one-"
Fox shot precisely two and a half centimeters to the side of his eye with the eyepatch, and Wolf knew the trajectory was calculated.
"Tch. Fine." Wolf holstered his blaster and held his hands in surrender. He shuffled out, a slow inching with Fox's aim locked on. "The blood's on your paws." And as soon as he touched the doorway, he leapt into a sprint away.
The hero who became hero by circumstance rather than choice pocketed away his gun when he heard a click and felt cold steel press the back of his head.
Damn it. Damn everything. Wolf was warning everyone. Was that why he was speaking so stilted and weird?
"Ahem." Another click.
And his instincts brought back a more accurate depiction than what he remembered. She wasn't pinned down. She was sitting, relaxed with her legs crossed. It was his turn to holster his blaster and hold his own hands up.
"Yes. Very good. Now, turn around."
Slowly, Fox did so, and came to stare down the barrel of an old fashioned revolver. And given that she ran this opera house, and planted the bombs herself, it was clear that she reveled in dramatics and attention. It'd be simple to get her to ramble on about a villainous master plan at length. Perfect distraction. "Why are you doing this?"
"It is simple," she said, contorting her mouth into an exaggerated smirk.
And now, to wait.
To wait for the perfect opportunity to disarm her.
And arrest her.
And to call the militia to take her into custody.
Which, if from the clamor and calamity of the patrons were to be judged, they still hadn't arrived.
A simple matter of waiting until she sprawled out her indulgence.
For the right moment.
Patiently.
...
He was no stranger to standoffs.
Protracted standoffs, even.
...
Sometimes it helped to goad them on. "A huge waste-"
"No." She shut him up by, with a surprising gentleness, placing the tip of the gun on his tongue.
So much for theatrics.
"Well, since you asked so nicely." So she did take the bait after all. Cocking the hammer, she added a bemused arch of the eyebrow to her still-somehow-smirking expression. "I'll make sure you have something to discuss with your friend in hell."
As that bitch went on and off with her sparse acting, Fox felt something nudge his heel. Perfect. Whatever it was, he shifted his foot as carefully as he could. "Truly, a motive meant to befuddle!"
He kicked the object at her knees. It collided with enough force to make her crumble down to the knees, and, strangely enough, emit a blue-white field. It pushed him back far enough to get out of line of the revolver, and in one practiced, precise motion, he kicked the gun out of that woman's hands and drew his own blaster. Fox would have to praise his own dramaturgy when he caught up with the boys.
The theater mistress chuckled quietly. "Oh my!" she said with some sort of strange affect. "Far be it for me to," her hand made to draw something from her back.
That was, until some silhouette lunged past Fox and clawed her quiet. The figure made a couple of bones crunch, and unceremoniously slung her over their shoulder. They stood as if unencumbered, and sighed exasperatedly.
Wolf.
He shot Fox an inscrutable look, his expression trying to say something. Something voiceless that even body language had no translation for. Then with yet more unexpected grace, Wolf leapt to the doorway again and vanished with only the sound of a billowing cloak.
Eventually, Fox hauled Falco to the Great Fox and had contacted medical personnel through privileged channels General Pepper cleared for the team. Which, at the time, was a lifesaver on occasion. But nowadays, well. If the fact that the chaos of the opera patrons sorted itself out without any militia intervention was any indication of the state of affairs behind the scenes, then how effective would the medical branch of the army be?
Peppy probably saw this impending state of disrepair and declined the offer to take over General Pepper's position. Fox finally understood. The thing he still didn't quite figure out yet was the enigmatic weight behind Peppy's remarks on the day he announced his retirement. "Enjoy life before it enjoys you." Which, at face value, sounded cogent, but uncharacteristically bitter of Peppy. Even Falco nor Slippy could put their finger on what led him to say such a thing. Even more confounding, he had gifted Fox a bottle of cologne as he left. It seemed rather antiquated, yet sentimental at some level.
Perhaps the sentimentality meant something more to Peppy than to himself. Fox found the cologne mulling around his mind not infrequently, especially during the idle times.
Regardless, he wrung the cloth out over the basin and doused it in antiseptic. It was all he could do to not panic over the fact Falco hadn't stirred when Fox started cleaning the wounds. Hell, with how everything was lining up today, he'd be surprised if the doctors came before he woke up. Yet, he imagined that he'd also find himself surprised if Falco regained consciousness before they came.
What made this even more, well, bizarre, was that insane woman shot him with such an ancient weapon. Blaster burns were easier to treat. They could be quickly cauterized after cleaning the wound. But this... this laughed in the face of modern medical technology. The mere fact that something was lodged inside rendered half of a first aid kit useless. It was inhumane. Horrifying.
Bizarre, damn it. Everything stopped making sense, and Fox didn't even know when even this own thoughts started to reach in bizarre directions, especially when he and Falco were on missions, missions that were child's play compared to the shit they'd faced before, back when a disembodied mad scientist built an army to take over the universe was less bizarre, back when Corneria's army existed as a functioning organ of the government, back when giant bees or ants or whatever infested the star system, back when Wolf was a heartless war criminal, back when Wolf teamed up to exterminate those intergalactic insects, back when that old pig from his father's and Wolf's teams chronically betrayed every single alliance so much that he became the laughing stock the galaxy twice over, back when his father's erasure from this side of the universe made heroic sense, back before everything fucked up and became so god damned bizarre.
"The Cornerian medical personnel have boarded the Great Fox," the main computer's voice, ROB's voice, called through the intercoms. Fox wiped his face and stood.
Despite everything, Falco was still breathing.
As he made towards the door to meet them and guide them, the doors slid open, and a serpentine man with a lab coat thrown over the traditional Cornerian fatigues entered. "Mister Fox McCloud?" he said, tapping away at his tablet.
"Yeah. I found my friend-"
"You look fine, Mr. McCloud," the doctor bizarrely said, still playing with his tablet. "I can prescribe some-"
"Falco Lombardi. Over there," Fox lashed a pointing finger towards him, doing his damnedest to keep composure. "Gunshot wound with an old style revolver." He walked back to Falco's beside, to lead the doctor. He was still breathing, regularly and deep. Almost like he was asleep instead of writhing in pain.
"Mr. McCloud," he gave a perfunctory sigh, "that level of technology does not exist anymore. An easy-to-use cauterizer is standard in all first aid kits."
He heard the words, but it took his mind a moment to process such bizarre banality. "Listen, we were up against some crazy," Fox turned back to the doctor.
But all he saw was the doors closing with a pneumatic hiss.
The doctor left.
The doctor fucking left.
He was at least kind enough to leave a fresh first aid kit.
Of which Fox found that his instincts already had thrown and smashed it against the door.
He also had found himself in the side bathroom, tearing it apart to find some tweezers. Pliers. Kitchen tongs. Anything. He'd rip the bullet out with bare fingers if he had to.
Then, he heard spluttered coughing and a moan.
Just as instantaneously, he found himself bedside helping prop Falco up, wiping flecks of dried and clotted blood away.
He kept rubbing his back, stimulating coughing until nothing else came up. Falco's wheezing soon calmed, and eventually he caught his breath. Fox continued his ministrations regardless.
Falco shifted around and sat up. He opened his beak to say something, but only a hoarse creak came out. "I'll get some water." Falco nodded.
In the lounge, he set about filling a few cups. The universe started to make sense again, even by an iota. Falco was alive. Of course he's alive. He had promised the only way he'd die was by a sacrificial smart bomb when he was outnumbered a hundred to one. And he kept his promises. Usually. Besides, he would simply refuse to be done in by archaic weaponry.
As he arranged the cups on a plate, a makeshift tray, a pair of tweezers caught his attention from a cupboard. Out of everything from the recent sequence of events, a personal grooming apparatus found tucked away in a recreational space was the least bizarre happenstance. He took an extra, empty cup so he could soak them in alcohol. That should be enough to sterilize. Hopefully.
But how did they end up there? Whose were they? Certainly not his, he kept his in his bathroom because he was one of the last bastions against this bizarro dimension unfolding within their spacetime time and space. Nor could it be Falco's since for as surly and streetwise as he was, he was a vain bird, and would be scandalized if anyone found out his beauty regimen. Besides, feathers don't work like fur. Whatever that meant. That was the only answer he gave when Fox asked. Granted, this was the most bizarre thing Fox ever did.
Then, perhaps, Krystal's? It was feasible, since she had left so abruptly. There was something urgent in her demeanor, he remembered. Before he could even pull her aside and ask if she was okay, she said something about her dead planet Cerinia calling out to her and departed. Her exit was more bizarre than the time she disclosed her telepathic powers to him.
She was on the team the briefest, so he always chalked it up to the realities of spacefaring work scaring her. Their job was, essentially, to put oneself on the sacrificial altar day in and day out. Although, that never quite tracked, given what he had seen her undertake on Sauria. Maybe it was a rationale Fox convinced himself with, with how tentative he felt being so vulnerable with her, a vulnerability unrelated to her mind reading abilities.
If they were Peppy's, that would make sense as well. While not as fastidious as Falco, Peppy did keep his appearance clean and organized. Especially for his weekly calls to his daughter. And whenever the team would be briefed on a mission. And whenever they'd land next to a city or settlement. Come to think of it, the only time he wasn't meticulous with how he presented himself was when they were contacted for an emergency or went extended periods without missions.
It wouldn't be a stretch of imagination to say that Peppy took pride in his experience, and carried himself in a dignified manner, like a self-appointed role model. Hell, they all looked up to him. Fox most of all. Whether or not he'd ever be aware that he sometimes did things in the hope to make Peppy proud was a different story altogether. And whether or not Peppy ever told him that he was, well, that's less of a mystery. There was something about his insistence of keeping in the background in an advisory role that Fox never could quite understand whenever he'd brought up the suggestion that he'd turn over leadership to him in a heartbeat. He still couldn't understand the cologne, either.
Although, the tweezers could've been Slippy's. Rather than use them for hygiene, he would often use them for fine detailed work on whatever his project of the month was. Always the prodigy. Everyone else for the most part had basic engineering skills, enough to keep their Arwings operational. Travelling space without such fundamental knowledge was a death wish.
But Slippy, he elevated engineering to an art form. A meditative practice. Even in the middle of missions, he probably daydreamed about his inventions. Hell, he probably dreamed of them during real dreams too. When Team Star Fox was just the three, they went scouting recent graduates from the Academy. One bizarre set of events led to another, and he and Fox found themselves in the air in a mock dogfight. Fox shot his craft's wing clean off, and by the time he found him to deliver the news that the position would go to someone else, Slippy not only reattached the wing, but somehow made modifications to the weight distribution to improve aerodynamic performance.
Whosever they were, they were going to be repurposed as an amateur surgical tool.
Falco downed three of the cups before he coughed up some more clots and mucus, which thankfully were much less than before. "That," he kept clearing his throat. He opened his beak only to creak again, and gargled some of the water and spat into one of the already disposed of cups. "Christ." His voice was clearer now.
"You keep doing that," Fox said as he took the spare cup he set aside and the tweezers. "Don't move around too much." He sifted through the medical kit he was using before Dr. Donothing arrived for some antiseptic solution, and poured it in, the tweezers following.
"What's that for?"
"Your bullet wound."
"My what?"
"That opera manager," Fox gestured towards the wound, "she was using one of those historical prototype guns. And when I found you-"
"Yeah, yeah. When you got there, I was already out cold. But," Falco gingerly traced the wound. "But it was just for show."
"What?"
Falco looked at Fox incredulously, who looked back at him with more incredulity. "Where," he said yet even more incredulously, "would she get the bullets from in this day and age, Einstein?"
Fox gawped. "I," he said, unable to follow up with anything.
"Crazy bitch got me with a sword."
"She what?"
"Kept bashing me with the hilt," he gestured to the wound in question. "And fucking," he sucked his teeth in and turned his back to Fox, revealing a long gash.
"What the hell?!" Fox quickly set about to dousing gauzes with more antiseptic. "Then Wolf didn't know either."
"I know. As soon as he came in, I wanted to tell him to watch out."
He started cleaning the gash, eliciting complaintive noises and teeth sucking from Falco. "Wait, so he came in after you lost consciousness?"
"Tch," Falco directed at both the pain and at Fox's sudden stupidity. "You can still hear sometimes when you're - ah, damn it!" he started breathing deeply.
Fox continued on with the treatment. "...Right. What did you manage to hear?"
"Everything." Falco's feathers bristled. "Even up to now." He exhaled, taking another deep breath. "I came back from the dead to throw that quack out the air lock."
And then, for the first time since he could remember, Fox found himself trembling from laughter. A concoction made from equal parts nervous breakdown, bizarro bullshit, and relief for being able to watch Falco's stubbornness in action.
(1) This was revealed to me in a dream.