Fire Emblem Fan Fiction / Fire Emblem Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction / Fan Fiction ❯ Cruel Melee ❯ flight of the falcon ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Author's Note: Revised version of previous posting--altered plot. Story is Alternative Universe. [rough draft]

Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo and HAL Laboratories and their associates. The author has received no monetary benefit from this work.

Warning: Contains violence and unorthodox relationships.


The Quiet City: Flight of the Falcon


He was at the top of his game, taking turns at neck-breaking speeds while the world passed around him as a stream of steely colors. In the distance, the city skyline still held, an almost stationary fixation to the eye. Immediately surrounding him though, all forms broke down, accelerated into oblivion.

He gunned into turbo, and the mechanical bird of prey responded instantly, a deep purr rumbling out from its belly. Head-on, a pale pink-blue rectangle approached. He steered carefully, aiming to hit it dead center. The ramp threw him into the sky as he slid over it, pulling up hard on the controls. At max. height, his metallic falcon soared, gaining a view of the grey track ahead of him, the quiet city looming all around and below.

Landing it was easy--a minor jolt, but it smoothed out.

Ahead, the straight-away became a widening curve, and he shifted weight, lifting the accelerator, but only a little. Physics slammed him hard to the side, tugging forcefully at his senses. But he rode it out, until the curve had straightened again. In front of him: the finish. He hit full throttle, the rush in his blood, and a fire in his heart.

It was ending too soon, but he had never known any other way to fly.

Inside his head, the city hummed.

* * *

Hundreds of kilometers into the sky, the view from all sides looked out over the surrounding districts. As a club frequented by racers and other celebrities, the late-night bar was a little too up-scale for him. But where else could a person go for a drink this late into the evening? And at night, it showed a magnificent skyline. So that was a good enough reason for him to be here, sitting by himself at a table in the darkest corner, waiting for a friend. He had started out with the hard liqueur and now wondered when would be a good time to stop. The glass on his table sat nearly empty. As he considered refilling it, his eyes strayed to the nearby window, out over the city lights and higher into the night sky. From this altitude, he could see the stars, battling with the city for attention. At ground level, the city always won. But in the endlessness of space, that was another story.

‘Feeling melodramatic?’ he thought to himself. What the hell, must be the drink. Or maybe he was turning into a goddamn sap in his old age.

That was the problem right there.

‘I feel old.’

He decided to drink to that, finishing what was left in his glass.

It didn't burn so much on the way down, since the ice had melted into it. He tested himself. He still knew what day of the week it was, and he could still feel both of his feet. So it was decided to order another.

He had lifted his head, about to signal a server, when a bottle of scotch came down in front of him, thudding softly against the table. Eyes trailing up the hand that came with it, he found a familiar face--and a bitter smile.

"Hey there, Sam'," he greeted, lips curving upward. It came out low, with a rumble to his tone.

"'Evening, Captain. Mind some company?" He shook his head, and she seated herself across from him. His hands went to the bottle between them, turning it around by its neck. He raised his eyebrow at her. Her response come by a tilt of her head toward the bar, where DK himself stood wiping the counter with a rag. The large bar owner met his eyes and only gave a firm nod of the head. Captain nodded in reply, raising a hand in thanks.

"Can I offer you a drink?" he asked, turning back to Sam.

"Might as well," she said, sliding her glass of ice across the table.

After he had poured drinks for both of them, after they had taken a few sips in silence, swirling their glasses so that the ice melted and mixed faster, he finally looked at her and found that she was watching him, something in between patience and caution in her expression.

Sam had always been good at reading people, observing the surroundings. It was a useful tool in her profession. Unlike him, she was in her prime--old enough to be a veteran, but young enough to still be in the game. In some ways, she reminded him of himself. Hardened at heart, cool under fire, but unlike him, never resigned to regret. Her flaws didn’t completely incapacitate her. Or maybe her own mask was sturdier than his.

"How's the business, Captain?" she asked, finally.

"The usual," he answered, amazed that it came out without pause. "And you?"

"Pretty good," she said.

He nodded, taking another sip. She considered him for a moment before speaking again.

"Seems like you're back in all the talk lately," she said casually, her tone almost teasing. "The news bulletins are starting to love you again." He said nothing. "And the rumors keep going," she added. "You wouldn't believe the things I've heard."

"I guess everyone loves a star, right?" he said, smiling morosely. ‘I'm their fucking clown.’

"You're a regular celebrity," she agreed. "Making a real name for yourself."

"Thank you," he said, laughing. She laughed too, raising her drink to her lips again. She had never been one to let a man reach the bottom of his glass before she did.

More silence passed between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Both their glasses were empty, so he refilled them.

"Well," she began, waiting for the ice to melt, "is any of it true?"

"Which part?" he asked. "What you've been hearing on the news, or what's been going around the inner circle?"

"Any part."

Instead of answering, he turned toward the window. She followed his gaze, noting his reflection in the pane of glass. She said nothing further, only took another drink from her cup.

He didn't have to answer. The expression on his face--which she had learned to read--said it for him.

But he would play it off. She knew he would.

“The tabs are written by morons,” he said, his tone joking. “I could come up with better stuff if I whacked a keyboard with my dick.”

Sam laughed, deciding to award him for effort, at least.

The tabloids had called him many things. They spun him out as a limp-wristed, unintelligent, socially awkward wash-out. It had been years since he last won a Grand Prix, and no one knew his name anymore. But the tabloids had been looking for some dirt on racers, and Captain had done well this year, just well enough to place at the bottom of the top twenty. So one news source had reported on his background, painting a sad picture of a man getting too old for the game, trying to re-enter the pros from retirement, after a year spent dominating the amateur tracks. Others picked up on it, and his story became even more colorful. He was the product of a traumatic childhood, now an alcoholic on an eight year drinking binge who raced well only when drunk; he was the father to many children borne by different women, but he was also a repressed homosexual whose sexual depravity could turn him into a wild berserker or a flaming rapist. Not just a has-been, he was also an embarrassment to his colleagues, but too stupid to realize it.

And even though Sam knew better than to believe all of this, she knew that not all it was lies.

“There’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” she said.

“Not a damn thing.”

They were both silent for a moment.

After a pause, he changed subjects. “So what brings you here, Sam? I know you didn’t travel across the solar system just to straighten out gossip with me.”

“No,” she admitted. “I’m here because of a job.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

Across the table, Sam leaned forward, her voice falling low. “You’ve seen the listings.” It was a statement, not a question. “Digital Clay Technologies is offering the value of a small planet in gold for the retrieval of what they’re calling ‘stolen company property’.”

He nodded once. “I’ve heard.”

Sam smirked at this. “The item we’re talking about,” she continued, “is a standard data chip. Nothing special except for the information on it--no details disclosed. The problem is that it’s linked to a mobile projection unit.”

“Which means it could be wandering around on its own,” he concluded.

Sam gave a firm nod of the head. “A wire frame disguised in any kind of skin imaginable.”

“They never said it was a runaway AI.”

“They don’t say a lot of things.”

The Captain shrugged in response. “Doesn’t matter, Sam. I’ve done that kind of work before. Money wasn’t that good.”

“Did you see the numbers they posted?” she countered, one eyebrow raised. “Do the math.”

He shook his head, unconvinced. “Assuming the target hasn’t gone offworld, you’re still looking at a city of over a billion. The odds aren’t worth it.”

Sam regarded him in silence before speaking again. “Then let me tell you one more thing,” she offered. “I started working on this several months ago. In the beginning, it was like you said. I got nowhere. Then, on luck, I ran into a mutual friend of ours. Apparently, the old fox and his crew had an encounter with the Prion-212.”

“The ghost station?”

Sam grinned, nodding. “You’re not so far out of the loop, Captain.”

“Hmph.” He risked a smile. “Those assholes are known for dicking around with shit like that. How does it tie in with DC Tech?”

“I’ll let them explain it to you when they get here,” she replied. At his apparent surprise, she laughed. “Our old fox is taking a much needed vacation from terrorizing all of space. And he’s headed here because rumor has it you’re in the next Grand Prix.”

She studied his face, finding the trace of a smile below the mask. “Is it true?”

“Maybe,” he answered. His voice came out dispassionate, but a slight edge of excitability was there, hardly detectable. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, which was bound to happen if he got his hopes up, if he let himself believe that this could be the long awaited second chance he had dreamt of for the past year.

Sam must have felt it too. It showed in her eyes. But something else had crept into her face. Her mouth set to a firm line, and her eyes watched his mask with a subtle, deep consideration. “You’re going after the prize, aren’t you?” she asked finally, her voice somber. “Alone.” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “You know, for a while, we thought you were dead. Out of the game.”

He didn’t look directly at her, preferring to stare down at the tabletop. After a moment, he lifted his drink. “I’m never out,” he answered, taking a sip. He set down the glass with a heavy thud. “I’m not senile yet, either. I know about the Prion.”

Sam smiled regretfully. “Then you know what we’re dealing with here.”

“I know,” he said, “that there’s a prize. And it’s mine.” Abruptly, Captain made to get up from his chair. “Thanks for the drink, Sam. I owe you one.”

His friend stopped him from rising, one hand reaching for his arm. Her eyes nailed him where he was. “This thing,” she said, “whatever it is--it’s powerful. And the situation is more complicated than you probably think. Come with me to see Fox when he arrives.”

He studied her face. “What exactly did he bring off that station?”

Sam’s expression was grim. She shook her head. “We’re not sure. Hopefully, we can find out. In the meantime . . .” She raised her drink. After a pause, Captain did the same.

“What are we toasting to, Sam?”

“Victory.”

* * *

The package waited for him. It alone, in his single-room apartment, seemed to have expected his return. He kept it in the corner of his eye while he shrugged off his jacket. Then taking a seat on the bed, he worked off his boots, his belt and gun. Lastly, the helmet came off, finding a place on his dresser.

The apartment had been designed for space efficiency, not comfort--one room among many that honeycombed a monstrosity of concrete and steel. The building was old, providing only low-level lighting in each of its residential compartments, none larger than a closet. Within these walls, tenants carried out their daily lives, packaged like eggs in a carton.

He hadn’t bothered with the lights when he entered. Not until he remembered the box on his desk, and the reason for its presence there, did he rise from the bed to flip on a dim desk lamp.

The box had arrived the previous morning by a uniformed, company delivery man. A brief x-ray scan proved that the wrapping contained only what it was supposed to contain, and he left it on the desk. Now he took it in both hands, turning it over. The label was addressed to him, his legal name printed out in mechanical font. A corporate logo overlapping the return address quietly asserted legitimacy.

His fingers pried off the wrapping, revealing a metal cube encased in plastic, larger than a jewelry box and smaller than a computer. In his hands, it weighed very little.

Special order and company manufactured, the box had been designed for high-security storage.

He woke up the console on his desk. Words danced in front of his eyes as he scanned through the file that opened onto the screen.

‘High-priority . . . company property . . . payment in credit or coinage . . .’

It was a hefty reward for something so commonplace. Must be expensive data. But those details didn’t really concern him. He wasn’t supposed to look at the information it carried. He only had to worry about finding the damn thing--and containing it for delivery.

Usually, companies paid well for recaptured wire frames. But most escaped frames were just used pocket pets, or pocket maids, pocket fighters, pocket whatever--consumer purchases being returned to their manufacturer for proper disposal. The companies paid well because it deterred piracy and helped enforce product registration, and in the end, the accounting books balanced out in their favor.

He set down the box and took a seat at the bed. His head was starting to hurt. Leaning forward, he nestled his forehead in the palms of his hands. There was nothing else he could do, having finished the last of his alcohol. He was too tired to go out for more. Maybe he could just order it from here?

A gentle weight settled behind him on the mattress. He started, lifting his head from his hands, as soft fingers rested on his shoulders. Turning, his eyes found the second cube, in the same place he always kept it, on the floor, next to the coffin that was his bed. In design, it looked much like the other. But this one was older, its plastic coating chipped and stained in places, worn from suitcases and closets, from countless days and nights spent on hotel floors and in cargo holds--at times, carried in his coat pocket. For a good number of years, it had been his sole traveling companion. He was surprised its power light still worked. But now it glowed back at him, unrelenting in the darkness, the lid propped back. He must have left it open for the entire day while he was gone.

The hands on his shoulders coaxed him to lie down, and that familiar voice whispered crystalline promises in his ear. He didn’t respond. Not that it mattered. Pocket pets didn’t have feelings, did they?

A ‘new message’ alert flashed on the screen of his desk console, but it went unnoticed. The eyes glimmering above him held his complete attention, shining with an almost human understanding--as human as the minimal intelligence of an artificial brain could manage, anyway.

It smiled.

He closed his eyes, arms folding around a smaller body pressed against him.

In the dark, the warmth it provided almost seemed real.