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Slick Run

I Men

Fox rolled onto his back, his heavy breathing filling the room, sweatsoaked sheets beneath him rapidly absorbing his heat. A pair of black boxers still clung to his left ankle, refusing to defect his naked body. He ran his hands through the tangle of his hair, white, wet, and wild as it clung to the pillow, then let them fall to his sides. His knees hurt, his back hurt, his ass hurt, but the rush of dopamine and endorphins pulled his lips up into a shadow of a grin. A short chuckle passed his lips as he stared up at the ceiling, his mind deaf as his body sang.

He felt Alex shift on the bed beside him, tossing an invisible wave of heat over him as the cat placed his hand on Fox's stomach, running his fingers through the white fur of his navel. Fox let out another snicker as he tilted his head, letting it rest against Alex's shoulder. The window blinds were half open, creating barcode lines of light and shadow throughout the room. Outside, a blue-white planet shined like a magnificent crystal in the black ocean.

Alex let out a heavy sigh before speaking, his voice low and explosive in the silence. "Goddamn...You can get wild when you want to."

Alex's voice seemed to bring Fox back to reality, comprehension filling his gemstone green eyes. He really had no idea what had happened; it was like his personality had been shunted aside to make way for his most rudimentary instincts, his thoughts and perceptions blocked, locked away into some dim corner to allow for the procession of want, of need and desire. When he was on top of Alex he became someone else, some thing else, something that lived only to satiate its base needs. He shook his head, still grinning as he cast a careful glance at the door.

How long have I been doing this? Fox wondered, trying to go over the dates in his mind. He kept coming up with two months; two months of secret rendezvous with the new Starfox recruit in dark corners of the ship, two months of looking over his shoulder to make sure nobody was giving him curious second glances, two months of asking colleagues to repeat what they were saying because his mind was still in bed with Alex, two months of staring at doors, hoping they were locked even when he knew they were. He was terrified by the hour that someone would find out.

Subsequently, he never felt more alive.

Fox turned on his side to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, Alex's white hand sliding away. The air rushed up and blew like a cold breath on his rear, his anus slick with Alex's cum. His joints complained loudly as he reached over and grabbed the clock, jostling a framed photograph of his mother and father, who were looking down on a little fox infant swaddled in white cloth. A lock of wet hair fell over his eyes; he wiped the strands away, taking a deep breath to settle himself.

"Shit...We have to be in the briefing room in forty minutes. We should--."

Fox let out a soft cry of surprise when he felt one of Alex's fingers plunge into him, all the way up to the last knuckle. His feet and tail seemed to twitch on their own suggestion as the cat worked his finger inside him, tickling that special zone. Fox turned and slapped away Alex's hand; the cat held it up for inspection, playing with the semen between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were like twin spheres of yellow-brown zircon that glinted brightly when he turned his head just the right way, so that a stripe of light ran across his face.

The cat's body was like an ancient figurine, an attempt to invoke the nature of the male spirit through obsidian and pearl. Black fur covered the majority of his body, while white fur covered his elbows down to his hands, knees down to his feet, and a wide strip from his face under his eyes downward, covering his chest, stomach, and inner thighs. His tail was like a whip, slashing through the air. Alex smiled that crooked grin of his and raised one black eyebrow, staring at his fingers. Only three years older than Fox, and he looked about thirty.

"Forty minutes is a long time."

Fox sighed. "Yeah, but we shouldn't waste it. Come on, get up."

Alex's hand started playing with the patch of Fox's pubic fur, straying just an inch from the base of his cock. A bead of pre-cum formed on his pink tip, settling into the shallow river of semen that ran down his semi-erect shaft. "You want me to finish this?" Alex asked, his thumb brushing against the soft white fur on Fox's testicles, leaving glistening stains. Fox grabbed Alex's wrist and lifted it away from his pelvis. It dropped back down in the same place.

"You know, Fox, you'd look real good in something girly, like maybe a pair of panties or lingerie."

"What?" Fox scoffed through his nose, irritated that his cheeks would dare to fill with blood. Alex slowly began tracing a spiral in his pubic hair, inward then outward.

"Yeah, like green silk. Something nice and shiny to bring out those beautiful eyes...You could pull it off."

Fox rolled his "beautiful eyes;" he hated Alex's obstinacy, hated the pompous attitude that always came out whenever they were alone together, creeping out like a thing that creeps, invading him. He disliked how Alex thought he could get away with ordering him around, candy-coated with flattery. More than anything, he hated how he liked being ordered around. In two months Alex had managed to get into his head, the big cat's cock filling more than his ass. Fox felt himself in a circle, without end, where he hated that he loved that he hated that he loved Alex's aggressiveness. It was necessity, however, that he kept coming back to for the answer, and necessity that he kept up these secret meetings.

Stress comes with the job; mercenary-for-hire is not as lucrative a venture as popular culture makes it out to be. It's demanding and expensive. Its business is fleeting, tangible, like something light and wispy on the wind; unless you become very popular, you have to go where the money is. Things happen on the job, things you'd rather forget but can't, things you just lock away deep inside and suddenly remember at the worst possible times. Some days just living is a stress, particularly when you're living in a malfunctioning tin can floating in the black and the absolute vastness of deep space fills your mind, and you need to do something, anything, to keep your feet on the ground or else you'd just float away. Cabin fever. Alex knew how to remove that stress, or redirect it into a more profitable action. Alex made you forget your problems, even for little slices out of the day, and that was enough for Fox. Hell, fifteen minutes with his rock-hard dick and you were good for the week.

Spiral inward, spiral out...

"Come on, Alex. Stop playing around and get up. We have to get ready."

In a flash Alex was on top of him, his eyes dark and glinting with lust, lips curled in a vicious smile. He pressed his knees against the vulpine's legs, holding them together. Fox gripped the sheets as he refused to meet the cat's stare, instead going over the well-toned and sinewy muscles, limbs convincingly thin but filled with muscle and healthy fat. Fox mentally swore at himself as he drowned in Alex's scent, that sweaty man-scent to which he had become addicted. Alex leaned down and brushed his muzzle against the fur on Fox's neck and face, blowing softly into his ear.

"We've got plenty of time, sugar."

Sugar, Alex's pet name for him. It was like a magic word of power, filling him with love and anger and lust and humiliation. He felt the blood rushing down to his penis, though he demanded it to desist; he had made up his mind. Fox's grip tightened on the bed sheets. He glared up at the ceiling as Alex started kissing the spot on his neck that made his legs tingle, physically and mentally removing any submissiveness he possessed only a few minutes before.

"You know, I love those noises you make when I--."

"Get off me, Alex. Right now."

The big cat stopped, pushing himself up by his powerful arms. When he looked down at him and met his eyes, Fox saw the grin on his lips, stupid super-confident smile telling him he was overreacting. Fox kept his expression grim, trying to ignore the strength that lay in the arms on either side of his head. Alex kissed the tip of Fox's black nose.

"I love you, captain."

Fox narrowed his eyes; Alex broke one of the few rules they had concerning their clandestine relationship. They never allowed themselves to blur their business lives with their private lives, so they never privately used formal affectations out of mutual fear that it would cause unbalance or miscommunication during work. Fox was about to reprimand the recruit when Alex rolled away from him, stretching his legs out over the bed.

"Anybody ever tell you that you take things way too seriously? Lighten up, Fox. Don't sweat over the unimportant--ah!"

Alex stiffened as he brought his legs down onto the blue-black linoleum floor. He stopped, frozen, bending forward at the waist, eyes shut and lips peeled back in pain. The fur on his tail was bushed out so that it was triple its normal width. Fox sat up, his authority momentarily pushed away for his concern for his crewmate. "Alex? Is it your leg again?"

"Yeah, I keep fucking forgetting...ugh."

Alex didn't move for two long minutes, just sat there rubbing his left knee in an effort to make the pain fade away. Fox, being the leader, had to be one of a small group to go over the paperwork of each and every employee of Starfox, perusing transcripts, work histories, military records (if any), criminal records (if any), and medical records. Fox felt it was an invasion of privacy, but after the hiring and firing of several unsavory personnel, he began to see the necessity. He was the first one to see the issue between Alex's paper, which stated in mute ink NO CURRENT MEDICAL ISSUES, and the uncommon occurrences when the cat would start limping on his left leg, or wincing if he turned his leg at a particular angle.

Alex had spent three years in the Cornerian military, during which time he had participated in around two dozen operations, several of them marked SNAFU. There was an incident on some distant planet, a situation that threatened to reach out and affect several planetary coalitions if military action wasn't used. Only a quarter of Alex's platoon survived, and among those survivors were scars that dug deep. For Alex, shrapnel from a destroyed tank had torn through his left side. The MASH unit in the field took him in, and the doctor removed each burning shard of steel from his body except for one. For whatever reason--the equipment at the camp was detestably outdated, the doctor was tired and overworked, or somebody just didn't bother with it--one metal splinter about as big as a dime remained embedded in his left femur, several inches above the knee.

After his employment into Starfox, Fox urged Alex to get an operation to remove the shard. Alex shook his head, telling him that the shard was stuck in the most unlucky of areas, that surgical removal meant playing with his femoral artery. Even if it was taken out, any number of ulterior issues could crop up. "No, sir" Alex told him, "Leaving it in would be better."

Fox sat up, twisting his body so that he was behind the big cat. He put his hands on Alex's shoulders, gently kneading the warm flesh beneath. He hated that he couldn't simply erase the pain, could only ease it away, make it slink back into the dark where it bides its time. Fox rubbed his thumbs and palms at the nape of the big cat's neck, looking out at the semi-lidded window, the big white-blue crystal glinting like ice. There was a low chuckle issuing into the silent semi-dark.

"You've never given a massage before, have you?"

Fox stopped kneading, blew a sigh out through his nose. He clapped his hand against Alex's black shoulder. "Take a shower, jackass."

Alex laughed as he stood up, gently slapping Fox's face with his tail. The bathroom in Fox's quarters was accommodated with a personal shower; Alex limped toward the door, keeping one hand trailing the length of the bed for support. Fox watched him hop-walk, his eyes involuntarily homing in on the cat's shapely ass, the way his cheeks shifted as he hobbled, the way the black fur enclosed the white inner fur there, making a slight circle as it tapered up to the base of his tail. He saw the way the cat's thighs twitched, wobbled, and found himself growing stiff again. Godammit, Fox grumbled in his head.

After Alex shut the door, Fox grabbed his cock and started stroking himself, reaching for that final step to push him over. He concentrated on the coolness that blew on his freshly fucked ass, the feeling of Alex's load filling him, trying to escape. He clenched and unclenched his sphincter. He focused on the smell of his room, the way Alex's sex seemed to be so infused with everything as though it had always been a part of it. He pumped his shaft into his hand, tightening his grip.

Men. Since his later years in the Academy, Fox's fantasies, sexual or otherwise, had been invaded by men. At first it started with girly boys, mincing and effeminate, adorable and affectionate, boys who confidently walked--strutted--on both sides of the gender line. His daydreams of the cute vixen who sat next to him during class bobbing her head up and down in his lap became subtle threesomes with a cute rabbit, wide hips and cherry lips, eyes bright and longing, a bra clinging uselessly to his flat chest. The vixen faded in time, and the rabbit boy came and went with a slew of other amazing masturbatory visions, forgotten lovers. Then, as Fox found that adult life led to lofty and often overwhelming realms of responsibility, his dream boys in Day-Glo mascara and sharp lacy skirts also faded. Soft and bright fabrics were replaced by rough denim and grungy army fatigues. Hair became shorter, bodies became thicker, voices lower, limbs stronger, dicks...well.

Boys became men.

Fox continued to jerk and tug on his pink rod, sounds of pleasure escaping softly from his throat. His knees still ached from riding Alex earlier; he had never done it in that position before, had wanted to try simply on a lark, just to feel the differences in the sensations from the other times he had Alex inside of him.

Fox grunted, his body steadily and slowly bending forward as he increased speed. The smell of his own sex seemed to urge him on to his destination. He took his left hand, which had lain idle on his thigh, and stuck his index and middle finger in his mouth. He ran his tongue over and around his digits, lathering them in saliva. There was the barest trace of Alex's sweat still there, mixed with his own. Something sparked in his mind as he felt each millimeter, each inch slip past his lips, another spoonful of endorphins filling his head as the scent of his genitals filled his nose. He took out his fingers, saliva hanging in the air between them and his lips like a translucent suspension cable, reached behind him, his tail raised, and stuck his fingers inside.

Alex's cum, seeking exodus, slid down his hand, hot and slick, slinking down his wrist and forearm, rivulets through his fur. He pumped his fingers into his wet warmth, in and out, relishing in the sensations of his anal muscles wrapping around an invasive object. He fingered himself harder, faster; pleasure increased in tandem with pressure. The knuckles on his right hand were becoming slick with his pre-cum, running slowly and ceaselessly downward.

His mind was a pinball machine, thoughts like blazing spheres zipping by filled with scenarios. One sphere came up as he rocked his hips back and forth, his fingers ramming in and out of his ass, filling the room with slippery squelching sounds. The idea of having something in his mouth had an exotic tune, an erotic taste; he couldn't deny the light charge he felt when he lubricated his fingers. Another fantasy: to take a man's cock into his own mouth. He and Alex had only ever done it anally, sometimes engaging in stroking each other off. He imagined what it would feel like to have Alex's size passing his lips, sliding over his tongue, rewarding the fox's indulgence with his taste; to press his nose into the cat's belly and lose himself in everything that Alex wanted to give him.

Fox stopped rubbing himself long enough to lick the back of his hand, letting his seed, salty and warm, coat his tongue. He swallowed, loving it.

That was the final step, the last ounce of pressure to break the levee; Fox ripped his fingers out of his asshole, tore off the boxers that still clung to his foot. He wrapped the cotton/polyester underwear around his shaft and let himself tumble into a well of pleasure, his hand working his shaft furiously, the whisper of the boxers brushing back and forth against his skin sounding much louder than usual.

"Ugh. Ah...Frk...Ah!"

Voice caught in his throat, breathing hitched; his toes twitched against the bed sheets, tail stiffening and jerking in time with his convulsions as he shot his seed into his boxers. The strength in his arms seemed to leave him, heading south with his ejaculations. When he was finished, he felt physically drained, deadbeat exhausted as he breathed hot and heavy. Had he not forced his eyes to open he was sure he would have passed out. Instead, he fell backward onto the mattress, pulling his legs up from under him. His lower muscles and joints howled for pity as circulation returned, making his legs tingle with invisible pinpricks. Fox lay there, limbs akimbo, sprawled across his bed, once again staring at the ceiling as his chest heaved.

There was a single knock on the far wall. Fox twisted around to stare at the door, eye wide in horror as his breath caught. Oh shit they found out, he thought-screamed.

Another knock, definitely coming from the bathroom; bar soap falling onto ceramic. Fox let out a deep breath, called himself an idiot, and sat up in bed. The bluish-green display of the digital clock told him he had twenty eight minutes left to wash himself up and be in the briefing room. He grabbed his moist underwear--Fox glanced at either door, expecting one or the other to open--and buried his face in the fabric, smelling his own musk, male humidity and the alkaline scent of his seed. He ran his tongue over the damp spot, ground zero sexual payload. His heart seemed to beat an adrenaline tap dance as he used his sharp front teeth to force his cum out of his underwear and into his mouth. The sharpness of the taste hit his throat, making him cough.

This...this isn't weird, is it? I bet it is. No, it would be weird if these weren't mine. Right? What the hell am I doing? I shouldn't be doing this, someone's going to open that door and see me stuffing my underwear into my mouth, and wouldn't that be just fucking great? I shouldn't be doing th--.

_ _The door to the shower room opened; Fox threw his boxers against the wall. Alex was rapidly drying his hair in a towel as he walked to the bed, whistling some electro-pop tune. Fox stared at the feline's crotch, his dick and balls swaying with each step, glistening wetly in the turquoise glare that shone in through the window. "Your turn," he said. He wrapped the towel into a ball and tossed it into the air. Fox caught it, smelling the scent of herbal shampoo that Alex always wore. Citrus cilantro, sharp and tangy in the air. Fox got up and took a couple steps to the shower, but stopped, watching the big cat as he rapidly put his clothes back on. Fox was directly behind Alex, front-row sights. Pewter grey briefs slid up over muscular legs, hissing tantalizingly as the fabric brushed over his thighs and ass. Pants the color of brown clay over those, zipper-snap sounding of metal on metal. Dark red T-shirt whispering over his shoulders and back--the color combination made Fox think of chocolate and strawberries. A caption in white font on the back said "All in all, I'd rather be on Earth." Fox didn't know what that meant.

Alex turned to see Fox staring at him. He smiled, not that self-righteous crooked smirk but a genuine smile. Fox didn't give him the chance to make a snarky comment or joke; with two long steps he bridged the space between them and ran his arms around Alex's waist, pressing his mouth to the feline's lips. He felt Alex's hands sliding over his back, strength running through his fur, sending electricity into his limbs and making them feel light and airy. Fox inhaled the citrusy aroma, holding his position. When he pulled away, it felt like he had broken something powerful, something fey and ethereal.

"Thanks, Alex," he said. Alex looked at him, his rough features melting into a gentleness he'd expect to see in some kind of ancient marble statue. The big cat winked.

"Anytime, sugar."

After a brief glance into each other's eyes, Fox slid out of Alex's arms, heading for the shower.

"Hey!"

Suddenly he felt Alex's hand grip his forearm, spinning him back into the feline's chest. Fox gave him a look, one part shock and one part anger, but Alex just smiled that toothy self-confident grin and winked his yellow-brown eyes.

"Don't put on any deodorant," he said, blowing Fox a kiss as he slid his hand down to cup the sensitive fleshy underside of his butt, making his knees jitter.

"Alright," Fox mumbled.

Alex, smiling, turned on his heel and headed for the door, taking out a keycard and flashing it over an electric eye beside the door. The light beside the terminal blinked red for several moments before turning green. The door slid open, and Alex slipped out into the corridor. Fox stepped into his shower room, breathing in the hot, damp air, feeling his muscles relax. He walked into the shower, the opaque glass door behind him slamming shut, but he froze with his hand on the curved, brass-painted knob.

Wait, what? Why did I just say alright to that?

_ Godammit, I am in control_...

Fox twisted the knob and felt the hot spray cover him, wash over him, cleansing only the parts of him that that water could reach.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Fox was walking brusquely down the corridor, his heavy black and red boots thundering down on the metal tile flooring. He had hastily put on some olive green pants, tucked primly into the mouths of his footwear, and a loose-fitting green shirt under a vest jacket the color of dull silver. The pungency of his deodorant filled the corridor, spicy and rich post-gym smell. On the walk, he had put on a pair of fingerless gloves, black synthetic leather with red velvet ribknit cuffs. He was combing his short, cream-colored hair when he made it to the briefing room.

The "briefing room" was an alias for the control room, and also code for personnel within to clean up the place. At the helm, seated in the captain's chair was Peppy Hare, his head shifting slightly as he turned his attention between two separate monitors. His ears, greyed with age, were hanging woefully forward, as though simply existing exhausted them, wilting like November flowers. Falco Lombardi was leaning defiantly against the far wall, staring out through the thick window that stretched from one part of the wall to the other, rebel defying whatever you got. He scratched at an itch on his bright yellow beak, his face a mixture of tired aloofness and rebellious anger. Slippy Toad, who should have been here as well, was absent, likely down in the hangar doing maintenance work. Alex was there, seated at a chair to the right of the door, staring at several monitors as he scribbled in a notebook. It looked like he was surveying electronic readouts of the Great Fox's interior and exterior, analyzing for any damages.

Peppy was jotting something rapidly down on a clipboard when he heard Fox's footsteps behind him. He turned the chair 180 degrees, his ears pricking up. He took off his spectacles long enough to wipe them on the cuff of his heavy grey coat. "I hope you're in a diplomatic mood, Fox," he said, his voice low and tired.

"What's the scope, old man?"

Peppy sniffed, got up out of the chair, and handed Fox his clipboard. He scanned it, looking over numbers and names. Bewildered, Fox shook his head, handing it back to his aged uncle.

"Is there something I'm missing here?"

Before Peppy could reply, the automated voice of ROB, the Great Fox's robotic stenographer and central nervous system, chimed in from overhead speakers, unfurnished with either emotion or inflection. "Video message from General Pepper of Corneria."

Peppy gave Fox a wry smile as he stepped past him, sticking one hand in a coat pocket. He leaned in towards the vulpine, his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "Somebody's early."

Fox sat down in his chair, scratching away an itch on his eyebrow. He glanced at his wristwatch, silently telling him that the meeting was beginning seven minutes ahead of schedule. He swiveled the chair so that it faced the bare, open floor of the room. "Bring 'im up, ROB."

The normal room lights were turned down; a bluish-white light shone from the ceiling, rapidly widening into a cone on the floor. An image flickered within the light several feet above the floor, static pixilation reforming into the blurred silhouette of the general, accompanied by a brief series of vaguely aristocratic brass notes. Fox narrowed his eyes; he knew the ship's condition was gradually deteriorating, but he hadn't even considered that the electronics would fuck up, as well.

"Good morning, Fox." Pepper cleared his throat before speaking, making the hound's jowls reverberate the opening words. He was wearing his usual formal attire, bright red uniform frogged in gold thread, void of any dust or rogue hairs; large, authoritative cap hanging over his eyes at the most perfect angle, the ensemble complimenting his darkly golden fur.

Fox felt that time was completely subjective from where he was sitting, but he didn't want to be an ass. He nodded, adopting a bored, high-cut attitude. "Morning, General." He didn't say more, giving superiority to the old family friend.

"Fox, I've got a job for your team, if you're willing to accept it. An industrialist, Jakob Tassel, has issued a report to Cornerian authorities that his daughters Tania and Marjorie..." here the hologram of General Pepper was attended by two smaller unmoving images beside him, looking like school photographs of the Tassel sisters. Young tigers, one maybe a couple years older than the other, both with black hair of virtually identical design; sisters who try to differentiate their appearances in ways only they could perceive. They were both wearing broad smiles and dark blue robes; graduation photos.

"The father claimed that the two were on a post-graduation trip to some resort outside of the Lylat system. This was two weeks ago, and the father hasn't been in contact with them in that time. Naturally, he was worried, so he filed a confidential lost persons order through federal channels."

"Why confidential?" Fox interrupted.

"We have reason to believe Tassel has made numerous enemies during his tenure; fired employees, snubbed business associates, competitive firms. There is also the possibility of his involvement with several small-time drug groups. Tassel figured that a public statement would make the more opportunistic of his rivals seek a bargaining chip. Now, with what digging we've done into the matter, we believe that the girls' ship has gone down, intentionally, on this planet."

The photographs beside the general disappeared, replaced by several small, grainy images of a planet, golden brown, looking for all the world like a gigantic oven-baked pastry in a sea of ink. The images showed multiple angles, each image tagged with coded numbers at the bottom denoting angle and direction.

"The planet Hex, though small, is a single giant desert, interspersed with packets of severe mountain ranges and less than a dozen small, oxygen-rich lakes. Vegetation is present but minimal. Most of the mountains are iron-rich, which play havoc with pedestrian radio communications, though communication is possible with standard issue military phones. Every now and then a sandstorm will kick up like a big hand, sweeping away anything that gets in its way, but you won't need to worry about that. The Tassels' ship went down approximately...here."

Two of the images of Hex disappeared while the remaining one increased to double its length and width. A small yellow square appeared on the planet, followed by a bright green dotted circle within that.

"We have a base on Hex, a training facility for desert combat code-named KING. Reports from the facility state that several airships of varying sizes have been landing in an area outside of visual range, about eight in the past two months. We've sent a message to Colonel Winchester, the commanding officer at KING, giving them a photograph of the Tassels' ship and inquiring whether or not they had seen either the ship or its crew. We have received no messages, and that's raising some eyebrows here, as you can imagine. Since search and rescue doesn't fall under military jurisdiction, I decided to pass it on to you. You can accept or decline."

Fox was resting his muzzle on his palm, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He was going over all of the information in his mind, trying to point out any cracks in the paper. As the leader of the mercenary group, he knew that any accident, mistake, or issue that could crop up in the future would fall upon his shoulders, depending on whether or not he agreed to the proposition. There was also the ever-present concern of money hanging over their heads.

Before Fox could make a comment, Falco's cocky voice cut through the quiet behind him.

"A lost persons case? That isn't exactly world-shattering, is it?"

Fox turned and glared at the blue Fichinian bird out of one eye, cocking his head in a way that he felt was menacing enough. "Are you upset that it isn't?"

Falco gave him a reproachful look, holding it for several moments before shrugging his shoulders and turning his attention back to the void outside the window. "You're the boss, man."

Fox turned back to the hologram of Pepper, who was giving him a curious look. Fox took a deep breath before speaking.

"Look, general, you know we're willing to do anything for Corneria or for the Lylat system, but I don't think we have enough information on this, um--."

"We will send you all the information we have on Hex upon your accepting the mission." Pepper had a harsh tone in his voice, a gruffness that Fox had never heard before. For a moment, he wondered if Pepper was urging him to take the objective, and then he wondered why. Mentally shaking his head, Fox skipped to the next topic.

"What about the money, General?"

He heard Peppy clear his throat; Fox looked over to the aged hare, saw him scratch at his throat with two fingers. He wondered what that meant. Pepper, before speaking, straightened the collar of his red suit. "Given the nature of the situation, we've decided that your conditional fee will not be approved unless it drops to sixty percent."

In the two years that followed the fall of Dr. Andross, Fox had lived under the fear that his team wouldn't be needed, that there wouldn't be a threat serious enough to warrant hiring Starfox. He had severely underestimated the extent some people would go to in order to further their own ends. Criminality and Justice weren't two distinct entities, but a pair of roads that bisected one another quite often. It took a long time for Fox to realize that the "bad guys" didn't always wear black or laugh maniacally or carry heavy canvas bags with currency signs on them. Anybody could be a villain, just as anybody could be a hero.

He was severely reconsidering his opinion about General Pepper.

"Sixty percent," Fox repeated, slowly, incredulously.

"Yes. Given the nature of the mission, we feel that the decreased fee is warranted."

"I'm sorry, general, but given the meager information we have on the mission, a pay-cut isn't worth it."

"You're saying that you wouldn't attempt to save two young lives before being paid your exorbitant cost? They're just not worth that much?"

In the corner, unseen by Fox or the general, Peppy Hare rolled his eyes. Alex stopped what he was doing to watch the argument, pretending to still be writing in his notebook.

"Do you really think we're petty pirates, General? Do you really think that we wouldn't try if we could? Our ship is falling apart, we're understaffed, our equipment is outdated, we can't even pay for fuel! Morale is in freefall because of problems we can't even control! To you, it probably looks like a third-rate endeavor to put more money in our pockets--I'm sorry if that's how you really think of us, and I'm sorry if that's how you think, period--but we need that money, General. Sixty percent is not acceptable."

The general visibly fumed, his eyes seeming to squint and widen at the same time, his jowls fluttering in a stammer.

"You can accept sixty percent of the fee or nothing, Fox," he said, each syllable enunciated and filled with disdain.

"Well, you can get somebody else to do it for you, then. Do you know anybody close enough? Anybody with the capabilities to pull it off? Any third parties willing to go to the lengths for these two people? Can you think of anybody at all, general?"

There was a sound that came in through the speakers, an odd snapping sound, the source and nature of which none present in the room could pinpoint with total certainty. Most had assumed that it was the speakers acting up. It would be much later that they all realized General Pepper had cracked his knuckles.

"Boy, if you weren't the son of my best friend..."

There was a silence after the unfinished statement, which Fox allowed to go on. When Pepper wasn't talking, he was thinking, which allowed the worm of generosity to wheedle its way into his thoughts. Fox kept his expression grim, dead-baby serious. Pepper cleared his throat before he spoke up.

"Eighty percent."

Fox shook his head. "Ninety percent."

"Eighty-_five_percent!"

Fox reached across the arm of his chair, moving his fingers over the control panel that directed the majority of the room's electronic systems, threatening to cancel the conversation. "Goodbye, general."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Pepper closed his eyes, mentally cooling off whatever fire he had in his head. The hologram seemed to deflate, decrease, though the image itself remained intact. For the briefest second, Fox saw a tired look pass across the general's face, a shadow of sheer, undiluted exhaustion. "Fine, McCloud. Ninety goddamn percent; I hope you have some other jobs lined up after this one, because you won't be hearing from us for a while."

"Do you still pay direct-deposit?"

Pepper didn't answer; the hologram glowered down at Fox for a moment before his arm moved slightly out of focus. The hologram flickered once then winked out, along with the projection light in the ceiling. The normal room lights flickered on, one shorting out quickly afterward.

For the longest time nobody said a word. The only sound that could be heard was Falco scratching his leg with an opposite boot heel. Fox rested his head on his palm, staring at the floor.

Alex had set his notebook in his lap, leg over knee. He twirled his pen between his fingers as he looked from one crewmember to another. "Did we just haggle with the leader of the Cornerian armed forces?"

"Looks about that way, doesn't it?" Peppy said, though there was a smile on his face.

Falco crossed his arms over his black leather jacket, staring hard at the back of Fox's head. "You don't think you exaggerated that just a bit, Fox?"

Fox swiveled in his chair, his fingers laced into an arch. He tried to put his foot down to stop the chair so that he was facing Falco, but the movement caused the chair to miss the mark and just keep going. "Not a bit, no."

"'Morale is in freefall'? What are you basing that speculation on?"

"When nobody laughed at my joke the other day."

Alex scoffed as he opened his notebook to his last entry. "Your joke? You mean that thing with the nudist on the wrong beach?"

"Yeah, that one."

"That wasn't a joke. That was wordplay, at best."

Fox swiveled in his chair until he was facing the feline. When he looked at Alex, the energy was akin to mutual friendship rather than romantic; they both had enough experience to dissociate their private and business lives in public. Fox raised his hands questioningly, giving him a look. "Why aren't you writing something? You have a notebook, get busy."

---

Within the hour they were hovering several hundred thousand miles above the target planet. Fox had ordered the ship not to move one inch toward Hex until they had been given the information Pepper had promised. That out of the way, Peppy immediately began going over the data, straightening out his spectacles as his eyes flew across the monitors.

Falco, Alex, and Fox stood at the center of the room, surrounding a large black formica table, hollowed out at the center to convenience a large screen. The thick glass surface of the table glowed for a moment, reflecting the light of the screen underneath, and all three squinted as the various maps and topographical illustrations of Hex flickered into existence beneath them. Slippy came in several minutes later as they began to cement a possible landing zone, carrying a dull cardboard tray with several cups of fresh coffee.

"Anyone for a cappuccino?"

His inquiry went unheeded; Fox was gesticulating to one corner of the screen.

"This doesn't make sense. Pepper said they have a base...there's the base right there, and that's where the girls' ship went down. What's this, though?"

Fox pointed to a glaring orange dot in the corner of the map. Slippy set down the tray into the seat of a chair and began operating a pair of knobs on the side of the table, manipulating longitude and latitude. He increased both and pulled the screen northward so that the orange blip was at the center. From where he sat at the wall, Peppy spoke up rather gruffly.

"That's where the general wants us to land."

Falco balked. "What? Since when is the general telling us how we make our first move?"

Fox clicked his tongue. "He doesn't," he said, almost growling. Alex caught the sound at the end and looked up at him. The vulpine could feel the cat's gaze, but he kept his head down, too busy trying to figure things out.

Why was the general so pushy about this one case? Why did he want a third-party to secure the mission when the military was far more prepared and equipped? Was it really just protocol, or a simple matter of retaining confidentiality? Military jurisdiction, my ass, Fox thought. He rested an elbow over his forearm, scratching his chin as he narrowed his eyes in concentration.

"That's bullshit," Falco said flatly. "That's nowhere near either the location of KING or the downed ship. That's, what, twenty miles away from anything."

"It's in kilometers, Falco. That would be around twelve and half miles."

Falco looked up from the map and glowered at Alex. "Why are all of our fucking maps in metric?"

As Alex and Falco began a secondary argument about proper topographical measurement, Fox felt a headache developing, a little spider diddling with the nerves behind his right eye. He rubbed the spot with the palm of his hand, knowing full well that that was emphasizing the faint, throbbing pain rather than alleviating it. It grew steadily worse as Alex and Falco continued to bicker, Slippy throwing in his two cents every now and then when he found the chance. Fox wondered if he still had some pills in the little medicine bottle he kept under his mattress. He doubted it. He slapped the edge of the table with his hand, drawing all heads to him.

"Alright, never mind it! Never mind the damn maps. We'll drop right here."

Fox stuck his finger on the screen, stabbing it with his assuredness. A dotted circle appeared where the tip of his finger met the glass. A line was traced to the nearest inhabited structure (the KING combat training base) and showed that its epicenter was one hundred feet from the base's gate.

"It doesn't matter if its two missing people or a runaway meteor, we have to have anybody available willing to help us. Even if they don't want anything to do with us, we'd be in their neighborhood. All we need is their permission."

"Shit," Falco proclaimed.

Fox ignored him. "Hey, ROB, can you send a message down to the...KING Desert Training Range down on Hex?" He pronounced each syllable succinctly, hoping that ROB would take the order correctly.

"Affirmative; what is nature of message?"

Fox gave a brief summary, explaining the scenario and nature of the problem, hoping that...what the hell was his name? Colonel Winchester--hoping that Colonel Winchester would understand and employ whatever means necessary to ensure their cooperation in the discovery of the persons involved. If not that, then hopefully they wouldn't pack the place with red tape.

They waited in silence for the colonel's confirmation and reply, enjoying the coffee Slippy had brought. Peppy kept his eyes trained on the monitors, scratching his chin every now and then, manually copying the military's information into the Great Fox's database. Twenty seconds later, ROB's automaton voice buzzed through the speakers.

"Unable to deliver message. Cannot detect radio signal from desired location."

Oh, that's not a good sign, Fox thought. "ROB, scan the location for signs of life."

Twenty more seconds went by; Fox couldn't remember if ROB's scanning software used to take this long.

"Results from KING Desert Training Range bio-scan zero-zero-one: detected thirty two life-forms inside base."

Fox thought about that. There were (allegedly) thirty two people inside KING, but the radio was off? Or was the radio out? Out of those thirty two people, none could repair it? He made ROB scan the base again, this time using the parameter of "intelligence;" perhaps those thirty two targets were wild beasts that had moved in on the original inhabitant's absence, which would have raised another series of questions.

The second result still numbered thirty two.

Fox took a long, deep breath. On a lark, he ordered ROB to scan the base and the surrounding area out to a range of ten thousand feet, though he didn't specify for intelligence. The number this time totaled seventy. Fox raised his eyebrows; there were clearly wild animals on the planet. He decided to have Peppy and Alex do as much research as possible on whatever life could exist on a planet consisting of sand and rock.

"I guess we're doing this," Fox said, and began plotting out coordinates for the LZ into his arwing II, the designated and favored single-manned aircraft of the Starfox team. The hangar currently held only four, though there was room enough for a dozen. "Falco, get your gear on. You're coming with."

"Shit," Falco said again, crossing his arms over his chest. Alex rolled his eyes.

"You know what your problem is, Falco? You swear way too fuckin' much."

As Falco and Alex began another campaign of verbal warfare, Fox gave a few suggestions to Peppy and Slippy, then headed down to the armory to suit up for the mission. He didn't know how long it would take, but he had learned in the Academy to underestimate nothing.

In class, they even underlined the word "nothing" and put it in bold italics. Fox made sure to memorize that tip.

He hoped Rush was in a better mood than his other crewmembers, or at least was playing his music softer than normal. Considering how stupid that latter point seemed, Fox made a point to head down to his quarters to grab his bottle of painkillers. He didn't know what he was really taking, but the bottle said "Aspirin," so that's what he kept telling himself.

---

Were one to look in the pages of High Caliber Dreams, a magazine devoted to the mercenary lifestyle, which lists various groups, agencies, and prospective job opportunities throughout the Lylat system, one were to see that the self-made occupation carries with it a particular image; big brawny men and hourglass-shaped women garbed in black, camouflage, or various combinations of the two; long headbands wrapped around hair either too short or too long; boots as heavy as the people they supported; big guns, big knives, big one-liners. Starfox was never that merc group. They dressed and acted like people, not like stand-ins for a high-intensity action film.

Rush, on the other hand, had "mercenary" written all over him.

Francis Rushby, an ex-navy man of eight years on his home planet, had fought in two wars. Before that he used to work at his dad's auto repair shop, often tinkering with the spare parts and junk that would accumulate in the back, making abstract sculptures or certain innovations for the tools in the shop. After the wars, he sold his house to an ex-girlfriend and lived by the seat of his motorcycle, enjoying the pleasures and hardships that come with road life.

Rush had done everything. He had been a member of a biker gang, The Screaming Skulls; he was a roadie for several hard rock bands; he'd been in and out of so many jails he couldn't quite remember the sum total ("Besides," he'd say, "they all seem to blur together after a bit of bourbon."), his crimes limited to petty theft and aggravated assault; he spaced out on mescaline and lost himself in a forest, waking up one day in a bed with two hippie girls and a guy who was making out with a couch in the corner of the room; he was stabbed multiple times in the chest when he tried to pick up "another ex-girlfriend;" he became suspect in a murder he didn't commit; he wrote and published a book of his own beat poems.

Fox met Rush on location during an escort mission a year after the Lylat Wars, unloading crates from the primary ship. He was impressed with the squirrel's intellectual capacity and sense of cooperation, belying the ratty and grease-stained clothes he wore. Underestimate nothing. Fox threw out a job proposition, and Rush quit his shipping job on the spot.

The fact that the squirrel was built like something directly out of Fox's wet dreams also played a factor in his hiring.

Well-built from the navy, but lean and weather-worn from the road, Rush was the guy you hid behind when you had people chasing after you. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with an intimidating, wild gleam in his eyes that never seemed to leave, there could have been no other candidate suitable to be the superintendent of the Great Fox's armory.

Fox could hear the music before he entered the room; drums imitating rapid-fire machine guns, several electric guitars, anvil heavy and snarling, the singer's voice painting a tapestry of a world torn apart by fire and self-inflicted devastation. Heavy metal. He opened the door, smelling the cheap cigarettes Rush smoked every now and then. The armory had been converted from the original gym-style locker-room, structured like a stiff letter "M," with forest-green lockers along all the walls. Entering the door, one was treated to the view of Rush standing behind the milk-white counter, the wall behind him covered with various firearms hanging on pegs and racks, his eyes either buried deep in a nudie magazine or glued hard onto a piece of equipment he was cleaning.

Fox loved it when Rush bared his arms, which was often. He had a penchant for leather vests and baggy cargo pants. Today, he wore his usual black leather vest, unzipped, his muscular chest bared, displaying tattoos from his life; a massive anchor, the tines locked into the void-like sockets of a canine skull; the name "Candy" written like a wavering psychedelic cloud (Rush always stated that he never went out with a girl if her name wasn't Candy, just so he didn't have to change the tattoo); a tower of four leering skulls on fire; the line "Sailors do it 'til you heave-ho!" on his lower abdomen. The tip of his left ear was missing, the other ragged and bare of fur in places. His hair was a close crew-cut, encircled by a strip of black leather he substituted for a headband. A string of bullets dangled from a silver chain he wore around his neck, artistically sorted by caliber; they jingled like morbid wind chimes whenever he turned his head. Massive, dexterous, and well-used hands were covered by black fingerless leather gloves.

His black handlebar moustache was a severe contrast to his brown-orange fur; it bristled as he jerked one wild blue eye to Fox as he came in. In a flash, he stowed away his issue of Freaky Cheeks and began rubbing his hands into a grease-stained cloth. He spoke with a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"How's it, Cap?"

"New mission, Rush. Gonna need some provisions."

"Oh, it makes me tickled pink to hear that! What're we looking at? Protection, defection, contention, what is it?"

"Search and rescue; some wealthy big-wig is putting up a fuss after his kids went missing during a graduation trip. General Pepper said they're down on some planet called Hex."

"Mmm, the woes of the beautiful people...So have we taken a look at Hex yet?"

"Yeah, the entire world is just desert and mountains. Are we set up for anything like that?"

"You bet yer bushy bottom we are. Here, let me show you something..."

That was the key phrase that Fox knew he wouldn't be able to get in another word without force. He took a breath and crossed his arms over his chest, secretly elated that Rush had mentioned his bottom.

Rush disappeared to the side for a few moments, coming back with what looked like a neoprene diving suit with clear plastic tubing running through it and Kevlar accents along the limbs. "This is what any man walking the dunes can't live without; the DrySpell dehydration suit. Put it on, and it draws all your sweat out through the fabric, but get this...the fabric is one-way! Nothing'll get through it, except your sweat. Wear it for those long sand-blown treks through no-man's land!"

Fox eyed the suit up and down. He was thin, but he doubted if he could squeeze into the thing Rush held up like a rug merchant. "No thanks. Unitards aren't really my thing."

"Fair dues. Not to worry, though, 'cause I've the thing for you!" He disappeared again, reappearing with something that looked like a tight-fitting jacket with curiously lustrous panels on the lapels and sides.

"This, my boy, is something of my own invention--don't listen to DeltaCo, I made it, not them--this coat harnesses the light from the sun and transfers it into your body! Let's say you're out walking in the middle of the desert, the sun is high and the birds are making halos over your dehydrated body. You might be thinking, 'this is the end for me.' Whoa there! Not with the PhotosynthTec coat at your disposal. Simply put it on over your shoulders..."

"'PhotosynthTec?'"

"Allow these little rods here to insert themselves cleanly into your body so the energy transfer can occur--."

"Rush--."

"You might feel a slight glowing sensation--."

"Rush! I don't want any of that stuff. This is gonna be a two-day job, three max. I'll just take a gun, some ammo, and my pack."

Rush looked hurt for a moment, his cigarette shifting to the other side of his mouth. He stowed the coat away, placing it on a peg beside the window. "A gun? You expecting trouble, kid?"

"I get nervous when I'm away from home."

Rush grinned, turning around and browsing the wall behind him. He raised his hand like a scanner as he browsed his selection. "Oh, I hear you there. Personally, I hate crowds...lame crowds, at least...here, how 'bout this?"

Fox looked at the gun Rush set on the booth, a Fimbulvinter machine pistol. Two-tone black and brown; thick and stubby body with railway sights, barrel twice as long as its grip, reminding the vulpine slightly of a picture of a prehistoric fish he had once seen in a textbook; selective fire, with a rate of fire of six hundred rounds per minute, though Fox knew this model could get seven hundred; nine millimeter bullets, with an average clip size of thirty. On the black market, the gun was called the "Black Ice" because of its easy concealment and accuracy; you never saw it coming.

Fox loved the Fimbulvinter because it looked so damn cool. He took it, along with two clips. After signing the required paperwork in triplicate (Rush was a stickler for keeping a precise inventory), Fox turned to grab his travel pack from his locker. Rush exclaimed as he leaned over the booth, hands gripping the ledge, giving Fox a dirty look.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where're you going?"

Fox nervously stuck his thumb out toward his locker. "I'm gonna grab my pack."

"Not that wimpy little man-purse you carry around! Come here, let me show you something."

Damn it, Fox grumbled in his head. He wanted to get this thing over and done with as soon as possible. He stood beside the booth again as Rush disappeared. Fox crossed his arms, shifting his weight onto one foot.

A second later, Rush slammed a large, black and brown backpack onto the booth. Fox looked it with a raised eyebrow; it seemed to be three times bigger than what he usually carried with him. Rush pointed to it dramatically.

"The Tactibak 'Surefire' backpack. Designed for long-term urban blackouts while being sensitive to the weight-conscious individual. Six easy-access pockets with a large main compartment, total travel capacity of thirty liters. Contains two hydration reservoirs on either side there for water or other liquids, complete with their own straws. Primary belts go over shoulders while another fits around your waist. Take it, Cap."

Fox shook his head. "Nah, man. I'd look like a turtle under that thing."

"Oh, boo-hoo. What's a little fashion inconvenience if it means survival? Take it, McCloud."

"I'm quite happy with my own pack, Rush."

"I'm not letting you leave this room until you take...the...pack!"

"I don't _need_it, Rush! Not everything is a goddamn catastrophe ready to blow, you know! This is search and rescue, not doomsday preparation!"

Rush threw up his hands. "Alright, kid, have it your way! You seem to know all there is to know about the desert and the mountains and how to survive in both of 'em...my mistake. I didn't know you graduated top in self-preservation class. You don't need a bag so big that it can genuinely carry all your shit and a little drinking water besides. By all means, go on! Take a trip down onto Hex and see how you get by with your silver vest and your emerald drainpipes!"

Fox met Rush's glare, his eyes squinting into pinpoints of anger. After a few moments, Fox angrily grabbed the pack, crushing his fist into the fabric. "They're not drainpipes," he said as he started to head out. "And I'm not signing shit!"

"Fair enough. Hey, Alex."

Fox turned, and saw the cat's lopsided grin leering at him. He was wearing a sand-colored travel coat over his shirt, blue bandana around his head, and Fox saw a belt equipped with two holsters around the feline's pants. Fox fixed him with a particularly hard glare as the spider behind his eye started messing around again.

"What are you doing here? I thought Falco was coming along."

Alex shrugged, the very picture of aloofness. "I owed Falco a favor, and he wanted to cash in. I'll be your partner."

Fox's eyes widened; no way was this going to happen. Before Alex could talk to Rush, the red fox grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back a couple steps. He turned to the squirrel, fuming. "Would you excuse us for a second?"

Rush had already opened up his issue of Freaky Cheeks and was browsing the advertisements. "Already missing you."

Fox dragged Alex past the rows of mostly empty lockers, into the cul-de-sac at the other end of the room. Sound wouldn't carry as well right here as it would elsewhere, but still he whispered as softly as his temper would allow.

"What the fuck are you doing, Alex?"

"I told you what I'm doing, Captain. I'm accompanying you on this mission because the previous crewmember didn't want to--."

"Then tell that bastard crewmember to stop whining and get his ass in the game! You are not coming with me."

Alex was grinning, fucking grinning, making Fox's headache worsen. "What would be so wrong with me beside you, Fox? Are you scared that our feelings would erase our professionalism in the field? If anything it would be strengthened, fortified. You know I'd let nothing bad happen to you. You do feel the same way about me, right?"

Fox still fumed, but he hissed the word "Yes" through his teeth. Alex put his hands on Fox's shoulders, rubbing them with his thumbs.

"I promise you I won't do or say anything, anything, that might ruin our business lives or our personal lives. Should that ever happen, you can fire me right there. Better yet, I'll let you shoot me if you so have the mind."

Fox blinked. He was still angry, but he shook his head. He knew Alex was trying to worm his way into his brain, but he couldn't help but wonder if maybe the feline's attitudes were authentic. If maybe Alex really wanted a true relationship, and not just a constant once-a-day stress reliever. That thought scared Fox, scared him cold. He hadn't really considered it.

Fox let out a deep sigh, drawing out all of his steam. He knew Alex was right. Alex's hands kept kneading his shoulders, but soon started heading down his arms, slowly, gently.

"On the other hand, that's a lot of nothing down there. It'd be real easy to just slip out of sight, find a nice little place in the shade where we could lie down and fool around..."

Alex leaned in to kiss Fox on the mouth, but the vulpine held up a hand to the cat's chest, pushing him away. "Go get your stuff," Fox mumbled. Alex didn't grin, but he gave Fox that smile that told him everything was alright, that everything was going to be alright. He stepped past Fox, brushing his hand against his upper arm. After he was out of sight, Fox slumped against the lockers, hooking his thumbs into his pants pockets. It was like Alex wore multiple masks at the same time, and Fox had to guess what he was thinking by the one he wore at that particular time.

Love...

Whatever happened to mindlessly boinking each other? That was a good thing we had. A good uncomplicated thing...

The word "boyfriend" popped into his head, and it made him shiver. He knew that it shouldn't have, but it did.

This goddamn headache...

He waited for Alex to get all of his equipment, standing in that one place, leaning his back against the locker. After he heard Rush saying good luck to the cat and the door slammed shut, he walked around the rows of lockers and walked up to the booth. The squirrel looked up from his magazine, blinking double-take.

"You're still here? What did you do, lean against the lockers?"

Fox stole a cursory glance at the door behind him; he dug into his vest pocket and took out the Aspirin bottle, the single pill inside jingling with a forlorn note. He set the bottle on the booth, looking the squirrel straight in the eye. "Rush, I'm gonna need a refill."

Rush raised his bushy eyebrows. He opened up the cap and looked inside. Shaking his head, he set the bottle back down. "Shit, that was fast. You've been going through a lot of these, kid."

"I get headaches," Fox said meekly, making a vague gesture with his hand indicating his head. Rush only nodded and disappeared around the corner. As he stood there, Fox heard the sound of the bottle being filled back up. He would have breathed a sigh of relief if it weren't for the constant, pulsating pain behind his right eye.

When Rush came back, he slapped the bottle on the booth, letting Fox know it was full again. The red fox grabbed some money out of his wallet, the same amount as last time, and tossed it beside the bottle. Fox swiped the pills while Rush took the money, saying his thanks.

As Fox began to walk to the door, swiftly slipping the bottle into his pocket, Rush called out to him.

"Hey, Fox. You do know what those are, right?"

Fox turned around and looked at him, his expression grim, jaw set in a frown. "Yeah," he said. "It's aspirin."

Fox headed out the door. When Rush called out a second time, he didn't turn back.

---

During his last year at the Academy, Fox had once read an interview by a former lieutenant in the 803rd"Barnburners" squadron. The man was quoted as saying that the most daunting, terrifying, mind-breaking part of a mission was "the ride there." A thousand possibilities fill your mind all at once, all possible scenarios ranging from best-case to worst-case slosh inside your brain, creating a stew of unease.

Every time Fox entered the cockpit of his Arwing, the phrase "stew of unease" would light up in his head. Sometimes it made him laugh, while other times it made him edgy. This time, for some reason or another, he didn't remember the phrase. There was simply too much going on up there, no room for anymore.

When Fox entered the atmosphere of Hex, the first thing he noticed was the color of the sand and hills at the foot of the jaw-like mountain ranges. They were white, or at least very light in their original color to be virtually white, while the mountains had an equally perplexing pigmentary quality about them. Fox squinted through the glare, the word "faded" coming readily to mind. He and Alex were entering the planet at midday; the sun was very high in the sapphire sky, glaring down on the barren, faded landscape like a golden-haired angel of death. In the horizon, a heat haze made everything seem wobbly and moist.

Alex's voice crackled into his headset. "My thermometer's showing seventy-three degrees outside."

"Good way to save money on cooking."

"Yeah, if you can find anything worth cooking out here."

The two Arwings sped across the sky, leaving behind no contrails. As they neared their LZ, they decreased speed and altitude. Eventually, the KING Desert Combat Range hove its hulking form into view. Fox spoke into the mike, stating flatly that they were nearing the landing zone; he flicked several overhead switches and engaged the G-Diffusion system, an action that had already become second nature.

He had tried to send a radio message to KING en route, but an error occurred, flashing red on his display, exclaiming that there was no connection. Fox frowned; he didn't like how the mission was starting.

The collection of buildings that comprised KING seemed to, at least from above, resemble a colossal crab resting in the crotch of where two mountain ranges met, with a square fence surrounding the buildings out to, Fox estimated, fifty feet. The fence was made up of sticks, barbed wire which had rusted to a bloody red, corrugated sheet metal, and sandbags; put together, they all averaged around twelve feet high. He saw target dummies and bullet-torn wooden posts dotting the open area between the fence and the buildings. All of the buildings were dark brown, shit brown, the color of coffee grounds and fresh mud.

Fox landed his Arwing on the soft sand approximately one hundred twenty feet from the fence. He looked at it, saw how the main building's windows beyond seemed to stare back at him, watching. He didn't like that, either.

He waited for Alex to land before setting out. He used that time to double-check his gear, making sure he had everything he expected to need on this objective. Two days, three max. The brown-and-black pack that Rush forced him to carry took up most of the space in the Arwing, but he had to admit it looked nice, now that he was used to it.

After Alex brought his bird down, Fox released the cockpit window...and instantly wished he hadn't.

The dry, searing heat aimed right for his lungs and his eyes. It ripped at his body, pulling up moisture like a phantom leech. He coughed, gagged, fearing that the atmosphere was poisonous, but soon realized that, simply, it was just too goddamn hot. Fox sat in his Arwing, hands on knees as he tried to get used to the oppressive surroundings. He heard Alex doing the same thing he had done, only with a bit more dry retching. After he felt he could move, Fox grabbed his pack, made sure his Fimbulvinter was tucked into the holster at his right hip, and hopped out of the cockpit.

The brightness of the desert reflected a fragment of the massive sun's rays up into the pair's faces. Only a fragment, but any reflection was, they felt, absolutely unnecessary. They started their walk toward KING, silently cursing their fortune at accepting the job.

As they walked, Fox became aware of something sticking up out of the ground, a large square sheet of reddish-brown rock that had been hand-carved and set deeply into place. He guessed that the rock measured around seven feet in height and nine feet in length, eight inches wide. As they neared it, they could read "KING Desert Combat Training Range/ Cornerian Armed Forces/ Colonel Winchester/ Serial Number XXXX-XXX-XXXX."

At some point in the near past, someone had taken white chalk and scrawled "WE LOVE YOU" across the whole face of the rock.

Fox didn't know if it was the simple message itself or the blatant, unashamed defacement of federal property, but he felt an icicle form along his spine regardless.

Shaking off the irrational sensation, he kept walking toward the base, with Alex taking long, deep breaths. At one point, Alex lost his footing on his bad leg and stumbled, righting himself up. Fox didn't miss the metallic clinking sound, and he rounded quickly on Alex.

"Hey, are you packing a gun?"

"Yeah," Alex smiled, patting the cold steel at his left hip. "Von Sydow, nine mil."

"How many clips?"

"Five."

Fox stopped, staring at Alex with a look that would have been surprise had it not been for the light reflected from the ground. "Five clips? Are you out of your mind? In what circumstance out here will we be needing that many bullets? What possessed you to take five?"

Alex stopped walking as he came right up to the vulpine. He was standing on a rock, and so looked down on him with a smile. "Because," he said benignly enough, "Odd numbers are magical."

Alex hopped off the rock and continued, slowly walking toward the base. Fox watched him for a moment, considering the curious answer, then shook his head and followed.

When they got to within twenty feet of the perimeter, a familiar sound tore through the silence, drowning out the wind that began to pick up. The thunder-smack of a gun being fired, and an instant later Fox felt something slam into his stomach, driving out the air from his lungs, a two-thousand-two-hundred foot-per-second punch condensed into something the size of a peanut. The kinetic force made him bend over, holding his stomach. Even the pain was surprised; it took a tiny moment for him to feel it, and when he did he wanted to scream. He dropped to his knees in the sand, arms clutching his waist.

Alex was making sounds, non-committal "take it easy, man" sounds, followed up by another, gruffer voice, hoarsely shouting things Fox couldn't hear. He bent forward even more, his nose digging into the faded sand, his abdomen burning from...what the hell hit him?

Fox forced his eyes to open, seeing only his shadow against the white. He took a breath to calm himself; if he had been shot, he was going to need medical attention, a way to cover the wound so air wouldn't seep in. But he didn't feel any blood.

The shouts were getting rougher. Fox felt arms around his shoulders, pulling him up. He pushed on his legs, not letting his arms fall from his stomach. He tried to look up but couldn't, just kept his head down. He saw something in the white sand as the pair of voices argued, something that was rimmed in copper by was mostly tipped in a dark blue.

A rubber bullet.

He didn't think rubber bullets could hurt so much. Now he knew better.

Fox felt dizzy, nauseous; he knew it was the overflow of adrenaline. He closed his eyes, willing his body to calm the fuck down.

Anybody ever tell you that you take things way too seriously?

Somebody shouted something. He asked what.

"Identification!"

Fox felt Alex's hands on his shoulders again, heard him whisper something about his I.D. He took out his wallet, slowly, and held it up for whoever wanted to see it. It was snatched out of his hand, and he didn't miss it.

Fox held up a hand to his mouth. He breathed in smell of his gloves, knowing that if he thought about vomiting, he would. The heat wasn't helping, though...When he opened his eyes again, he saw his wallet being tossed at his feet. When he looked up, he saw a rabbit, an old, grizzled rabbit, pointing a rather large rifle at his chest, trying to kill him just with his eyes.

The man was dressed in a sand-colored shirt and pants, military regulation. His clothes were torn and ragged in some places, though it looks like he had tried to cover up the damage with amateur sewing skills. There were dark blotches on his clothes that made it seem like it was desert camouflage, but Fox knew better. He had seen blood on clothes before. The rabbit himself looked about sixty-something, with large and intelligent, though panicked, blue eyes. He was missing half of one long ear, and the absolute straightness of the diagonal cut made Fox's gorge start to commit treason again. The rabbit held his dark stare for a few moments longer before blinking and lowering his rifle.

"Sorry, boys. Believe me, you'd be doing the same thing in my shoes."

Uh-huh, Fox thought darkly. He bent down, slowly, and returned his wallet to his pants pocket.

The rabbit looked around, briefly scanning the hills and mountains. When he turned back, there was an expression of authority on his face. He nodded quickly. "I'm Major Cook, the caretaker of this lovely oven."

"Sir," both Fox and Alex threw their hands up in a salute. With lightning speed, Major Cook threw up his rifle at the two, his eyes blazing with fire.

"Get your hands down! Hands down right fuckin' now!"

Fox and Alex quickly dropped their hands, give each other a look. The old rabbit looked off into the southern-most mountain range, suspicion, rage, and fear making his eyes dart and jump. After a second or two, he turned and glared.

"Fucking idiots. They've got scopes trained on anybody with a rank higher than private. Around here, you don't salute me or anyone, got it?"

Fox and Alex nodded quietly.

The Major looked at them darkly. "Starfox, huh? Haven't I heard 'bout you before?"

"We're--."

"Oh, yeah, yeah...you're those mercenaries that do whatever for money. Well, I hope you're smart enough to know that out here you don't know shit about shit! Around here my word is law, and anybody that don't listen properly is gonna get prosecuted by my size thirteen boot up your ass! You two got that?"

Fox and Alex nodded quietly.

"Good. Congrats, boys, you made it to KING, now get the fuck inside before those bastards blow your dumb heads off."

Fox and Alex headed past the angry rabbit, eager to be away from him. Well, Fox thought as his boot heels softly crunched against the sand like a whisper. This job is off to a really good start...

Major Cook didn't immediately turn to follow them. He stood where he was, looking hard at the mountains and the dunes and the sparse brush nearby. His eyes jerked whenever the wind blew a particular way, making the brush waver and dance almost mockingly. You know we're here, the brush told him with its dancing. You know we're here, so why don't you just come over here and get us, soldier boy?

Major Cook held his firearm tightly in one hand, clenching it in a strangle-grip. His eyes darted along the shadows and dim spots of the mountain; they seemed to move in the midday heat. "Bastards," he growled, displaying a rude hand gesture toward the mountains. That done, he headed back to the base, walking a little more quickly than he wanted to.

---

In the rifle scope, the rabbit raised his hand and flipped him off. He knew the rabbit couldn't see him, not from up here. The black crosshairs swerved over the threatening hand.

"Pow..."

The rabbit headed back to the base. He was running, scared-running, following the two new ones. He decreased scope magnification to watch the other two, walking slowly, nervously, into the building. The banshee-wail of the wind was met with a rasping, heavy breathing, punctuated by a wet almost-chuckle. He looked at the pretty one, stared at her, put the crosshairs over the spot under her bushy tail...

A hand mottled with brown, red, and creamy white fur reached out over a patch of coarse sand and loose rocks, long fingernails yellowed and filthy and worn ragged from physical labor. Under the guidance of heavy respiration it traced a figure in the sand, curved and rounded, primitive cuneiform symbol filled with purpose. The artist knew that purpose, and his breathing grew rougher, more jubilant.

The three figures in the scope disappeared into the base, the door shutting silently behind them. The pretty little thing was the last one in, and the last thing the heavy breather saw disappear into the shadows as the door shut were those pretty little hips in green pants.

With a choked snarl of frustration, the hand ripped through the symbol in the sand, scattering rocks.

"Three-line, come in."

Radio whine and static-snake hiss; the heavy breather quickly set the small rifle scope down on the flat boulder on which he lay and scuttled across the rocks to his radio. It was a big, black, bulky thing with a long and thickly insulated antenna that flailed around like a horse's Willy, but it was military grade, direct from KING's storage rooms. The rough sound of Big Papa's almighty voice snarled into his ears.

"Three-line, report!"

"Nails reportin', Big Papa. Fresh meat comin' into the base."

"Numbers?"

"Just two, big stud and a pretty."

"Weapons?"

"Guns, small. Big birds with laser cannon. You want us to sic' em up now?"

Silence. The wind blew a ghost's whisper across the rocks and bare bushes that lined the high plateau. A big, red-furred tarantula was crawling along the long-nailed hand, front legs rising and falling questioningly every now and then as it lumbered in the heat.

"No, no. Keep your eye on 'em, Nails. Report back if anything changes."

"You got it, Big Papa."

The radio clicked off with a tone of finality. The hand grabbed the spider; legs flailed, large pedipalps vibrated together to make an irate hiss. There was a wet snarl, a soft crunch, and the hissing stopped. The heavy breather was also a noisy eater.

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Author's Note:

This story is technically my first attempt at genuine erotica. All my previous stories have involved only innuendo or implication. I'd like to know if I'm doing something wrong with it or not, whether the placement is odd or the description is subpar, so please feel free to comment.

I'm finished with stepsheets for Black Ice Boys up to chapter seven, so when I'm finished with this increasingly long story (it's not a series, just one big thing cut into "episodes;" I'm treating it like a television miniseries), I'll likely be getting back into that.

As a matter of extraneous interest, when you guys/girls read Starfox fanfiction, how do you picture Fox in your mind? Do you use his model from "Adventures," "Assault," or some other image? Personally, I like his voice and design from "Adventures," though maybe slightly taller.