Chapter Text
Fuck, it was cold.
What was surprising about that, anyway? It was Fichina, for god’s sake. Blizzards, walls of glaciers, failed industry. It practically was what defined this far-removed ice slab. Each day, another battle with the cold, another battle with the incessant quiet that settled between each and every mountain valley on this podunk space rock.
Yet, he was used to it. The frigid days, freezing nights, the lack of life contrasted with the abundance of winter. Each and every oh-so-charming factor that defined his home planet that tried to abate the resentment of being stuck here. Sentimentality was only for those who needed to half-bake an attempt at coping with their pathetic lives; and damn how pathetic his had become.
Eleven years after shooting far beyond the atmosphere with a stolen starcraft, he was right back where he started. Wars, aparoids, friends, enemies. They all disappeared, like the snowdrifts blowing up into the atmosphere; scattered with only a gentle wind.
Paths, possibilities, outcomes. They all converged upon this neglected piece of the Lylat System, too far removed from civilization yet close enough to have him fade away. Radar coverage was thin, wintry storms were frequent, and his familiarity with the planet kept him sheltered from the bounty hunters and mercenaries who followed his each and every step.
It was funny, wasn’t it? Running home and searching for cover, like some pup who hadn’t quite grasped what the “real world” really entailed. He never stayed in one settlement for more than a few days at most; and after he exhausted literally every other option that orbited Solar, he found his back against a wall. Nowhere to run, few places to hide. The Wolfen was in pieces, every exit was closed off.
The vastness of space itself, the sheer expanse of the universe. All was closing in around him. Gravity compressed the years he spent away from this snowswept hellscape into just a few seconds of the universe’s billion year history, as the stars around him collapsed into black holes- each singularity denying his freedom.
Light never escaped them, and the gravity well would eventually claim him. Escape velocities unreachable, a fate unavoidable. Always listening, always alert. Look over your shoulder, look away. It was only confusion that remained over his scarred, wind-beaten face.
Confusion in place of his own pride- his boasting over comms in the safety of his Wolfen, now silenced. The king who ruled Sargasso, now deposed. All that remained was a bundled-up disorganized mess, whose mittened paws struggled to keep his own nose warm in the face of an oncoming squall.
Fichina had always been rough, though. Although he never liked referring to this place as his home- it wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter. He can still remember his mom’s spacecraft leaving orbit, after she admitted her own inability to raise such a young pup. Not even a toddler, he was abandoned with only the clothes on his back, bereft of a proper name and deprived of love.
вук. It was his given name. Given by those to whom he begged. Bestowed by hardship, and colloquially known by those who wished to avoid him. How simple and redundant it was, to only be referred to as the name of your species. A name that had no meaning, a name so frustratingly superficial.
A last name, he did remember. From a second hand winter coat, the sharpied identity that nearly faded from his own mind. Faded by constant wear, similar to his own childhood memories he couldn’t ever forget. Hell, he couldn’t ever forget his father’s face, even if he tried. Always the man who’d walk out- never the one to face the reality of his own mistake.
And that, that right there was the perfect catch-all word for his own life. It was a goddamn mistake. From the moment he was born, it’s what he was. People embody who they truly are.There was never a more true way of thought. If a mistake he was, a mistake he would be. A piece of rotten wood can never be carved.
Wolf’s chapters of life were basically bookended by them. A mistake at birth, a mistake to his own mother. A failure to survive on this ice-giant, an adolescence of pickpocketing and petty crime just to feed himself. A mistake on sneaking into military flight classes, and a fucking mistake to even assume that his talent at the helm of a starship would create a life worth living.
A livelihood free of strife, where every question of “why” had a definitive answer. A life where he could show his mother how badly she fucked up, a life that gave him the chance to leave Fichina and never return. A life that he was mistaken to hope for himself.
Lylat above, how life was so fucking hilarious. If there were ever cruel twists of fate in his existence, then having him run out of options to hide out on so quickly after the Aparoid invasion ended, then this was a goddamn knot. Oh, how truly great it was- to see the stark metal buildings of глетчер once more. The way the half-burned neon signs of dive bars and pawn shops faded into the flurries of snow, the way that streets could never be used, as those who lived here always risked hypothermic shock.
How truly, truly funny that his only way of warmth was his dense jacket and a few shots of vodka. How laughable it was that everything ended up becoming empty and emotionless in this town, and how perfect of a fit it was to be the place where he called home. A home where nothing was handed to him, where no one dared to even look at the shell of a man who’d once been this planet’s pride.
A shell he was, and a shell he’d always remain. He was abandoned here with nothing, and returned with nothing. Left only to disappear from the galactic consciousness, left only to fall from great heights, like a singular flake of snow- left only to join those that crowded the ground, and to melt away once winters warmed.
It sure as hell wasn’t any warmer now, though. He still kept his frostbitten ears covered, still kept his nose within the cradle of his paws. He was on a collision course with hypothermia, as he wandered from house to manufactured house in search of shelter.
Door to door, knock by knock. Sure, his Fichinan was perfect; but even out here, people would always be aware of the danger he posed. Constantly aware of the mistakes he made; aware of just how far he sank.
“ова олуја је тешка, да ли вам смета ако останем само једну ноћ?”
“This storm’s heavy, do you mind if I stay just one night?”
“не.” No. Of course not.
“јеби се.” Well, he could’ve been a little nicer.
“знамо ко си ти.” Everyone knows who I fucking am.
He knew better than to rely on the so-called generosity of others. He knew better than to trust anyone but himself, he knew better than to stay in a town that loathed him. It might’ve been a bit absolutist to say that everyone hated him, but he couldn’t ever deign to stand in the way of how he was wired.
It doesn’t matter if the glass is half-full or half-empty, it’s still just a fucking glass. Whether it’s full or not is just a way people pretend that it could be literally anything else. He could translate his name into Cornerian, change his appearance, help out a so-called heroic cause, but he’d still be who he always was meant to be. He’d always be the villain in the story. He’d forever be the lost cause.
Nothing was left, so what made the constant evasion worth it? He’d rather settle for a warmer planet, a more kind environment than the one had forced upon him. What would’ve happened if he surrendered after the Aparoid Queen fell? Would a military tribunal, or hell, even prison be a better alternative here? It was useless to speculate over. Useless to somehow even think that any other outcome would be any more deserved than the one he faced now.
Karma was a bitch. There was no way around it. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Fate can neither be changed nor avoided, only accepted. Choices were always few for him, anyhow. There were no alternatives, there was no way to miraculously cure himself from this outcome. Each decision he made was morally wrong, so of course, his death had to be unfair too.
It was wrong to blindly support Andross so fervently, blind to create a mercenary team solely for the motives of another. Empty platitudes spouted from the ape somehow eased the burden his own life placed upon his shoulders. A galaxy free from Cornerian geopolitics, a galaxy that gave opportunity to everyone- was that so repugnant to believe in? Naive, it was. Shortsighted? A moron could see that. No utopia could ever exist in a system as broken as Lylat.
A broken system that tore down every attempt at success. A system that atomized Sargasso. A system that exploited the exoplanetary territories, and called for subservience to Cornerian imperial ambitions. Wolf remembers days of getting kicked in the stomach after asking a Cornerian soldier for his rations. He remembers days of mining for liquid nitrogen as peacekeepers demanded perfection with every motion. He remembers the orbital cannons firing at the Arwing he hijacked.
Days turned into months, and months into years. Time moved forward, and the galaxy moved on. Wolf was no longer the face of a rebellion, he was no longer the savior of those less fortunate. Corneria’s rhetoric was law, and by law he was wanted dead. One too many infractions, every warning ignored. He was detained and imprisoned more than a dozen times, but now, he was more of a judicial headache than a piece of propaganda. He was worth more to Corneria dead, and the one to finally bury his casket would be generationally wealthy.
The price on his head wasn’t some huge injustice, it wasn’t some vindictive campaign that was out to further muddy Wolf’s name. It was the military giving up on him, and letting civvy or contracted merc teams to clean up the remaining thorns in their side. Everything and everyone he associated with called it quits on him. Bridges weren’t just burnt, they were charred beyond recognition. Ashes were left in his wake, and he’d be the sheer cold to freeze them over once more.
He trudged on the gravel streets, leaving behind the fourth town that week. He’d never come back, people already saw him there. Any self-respecting tracker would find this place by sunrise, simply following the tips he received from locals. Being found was never an option. Even if being placed in a heated cell was an objectively better result, he could never give Corneria that satisfaction. He could never give him that satisfaction.
Just the thought of Fox McCloud made his blood boil. If anything could thaw his frozen state, it’d be him. He was the exact opposite of him, and his fame, his fortune, his favorability all made him seethe with rage. Fox had no parents, like Wolf. Fox was an ace pilot, like Wolf. Fox ran an elite team, like Wolf. But how, pray tell, does the man who supports a regime more cruel and absolute in scale than Andross could ever even think to achieve end up the golden boy of the galaxy, while he was cast aside into the dirt?
They shared the same exact qualities. Naivete, responsibility and a purpose-driven way of life. However, all of Lylat embraced Fox’s qualities as pure, while Wolf was rejected as poisonous. Fox was celebrated as he was loathed. It was always on Lylat’s mind, as to who’d be the scapegoat for systemwide shortcomings. He’d always be the release valve for the government, he’d always be the personified problem. There was no rivalry he instigated with Fox, and hell, he wouldn’t blame him for starting one. Fox was acting on what he believed, and it’d be hypocritical to hate him over something he’s done multiple times.
Everything Fox was could be forgiven, if it wasn’t for the sheer betrayal that got him into this planet-hopping mess in the first place. He could still see the tear-dampened muzzle of that fucking fox, telling him through a cracked voice that he tried his best. He could still hear the swings of the electrified baton as Fox did nothing to stop the Cornerian soldier from flogging him. He could still smell the blasterfire as Fox tried to stop him from escaping into his Wolfen. He could still remember the moment after he entered hyperspace, regretting saving Fox’s life.
One regret that’d just join a sea of them, he thought. Another definition that’d join the millions of self-deprecating thoughts. As if throwing away the brief friendship with Fox would be any different than the millions of consequences he already endured. Subzero temperatures tended to make a person delirious, it was basic knowledge and the foundation of survival in the Lylat System. Even if he could console himself that his own broken ego was just a product of hypothermic delirium, he could never deny or wish away what kept him out in the cold.
Never able to deny the identity Fichina created for him, never able to deny that he wanted to be better, never able to deny what he truly believed in- even if led him to working for that fucking ape. Never able to deny that he was the problem, it was never his circumstances. That alone was the scariest to contend with, that his circumstances never mattered to begin with; that he wasted so much of his life angry at a phantom- angry at what was ultimately nothing.
He still worked for Andross, no matter how much he wished he didn’t in hindsight. He still commandeered a derelict space station, even if it was a sanctuary for refugees of Cornerian conflicts. The label of galactic pariah might've been placed upon his shoulders, but it was a label of his own making. A label he embraced, and sought to reinforce. A label he’d always embody, no matter how many times he attempted to “start over.”
Gods above, how life had an uncanny knack for assuring cyclic despair. Auroras unfurled above the night sky, as his hypothermia entered its final stage. Far within the mountain pass, he could just make out the small speck of yellow nearly obscured by the sleet that pelted the soil. He could just make out a small den where he could curl up, and begin to hope for a better hand in his next life.
Such an easy exit wasn’t, and could never be in the cards for Wolf, however. As he approached the cave, ready and willing to slip into eternal slumber, his nearly ineffective nose sniffed out the exhaust of G-Diffusers. Fuck. Someone found his position, but how? What had he done to make his location obvious? Hadn’t he thrown out his communicator on Katina? Hadn’t his tracks been covered by fresh snowfall? What gave him away? There was no time to think as his ears turned back to hear the deafening roar of the thrusters, changing his pace quickly.
Shifting his weight, he sprinted along the desolate road, struggling to keep his balance. He bore no mind to the pins-and-needles pain that spidered through the joints on his footpaws, he paid no attention to the shards of ice crystals breaking upon his cheeks, he only remained focused on his own terms. Damn it all, he wouldn’t be caught this close to death, he wouldn’t let another exit evade him again.
The sky remained chromatic, the Arwing remained at his tail. He cared little for self-preservation at this point, if he was going to die- at least let him have the choice as to how. Wolf didn’t deserve to be given a quick and comfortable exit, just as Corneria didn’t deserve the satisfaction of killing Wolf. It couldn’t end like this, it wouldn’t end with a coward’s exit. He’d turn, and face his death. Unyielding, unrelenting. Stare it directly in the face, and laugh at it once you fall.
Wolf stopped. He panted for breath, each exhalation being marked with a puff of steam from his snout. Dropping his backpack on the ground, he turned his eye to the aurora- watching it dance across the obscured sky. He dropped to his knees, and put his paws behind his head as he waited for the cacophony of sound to subside.
“Alright, alright. Ya got me. Just do me a favor and make this quick, okay?”
The sound of footsteps grew louder as they crunched against fresh snow, the pursuer remaining quiet, as if in disbelief.
“Listen man, I don’t have anything left. I got nothin’ to lose, so just fuckin’ kill me.” His tone grew flatter, more monotone. “I know the price they got on my head, so collect your bullshit reward. The road for me ends here, ‘cause I sure as hell ain’t goin’ back to Corneria.”
Only the wind remained as the response was a choking silence. Snow tended to absorb every existing sound, leaving nothing but a muffled state of quiet. How frustratingly peaceful, how stupidly quaint- to have years of space travel be so anticlimactic in its ending.
“Oh for the love of god, if you’re just gonna stand there and do nothin’ then I’ll just do it myself. I’ll sit right fuckin’ here, and you can watch me freeze to death.” Tears started to fall. “I can’t go, I won’t go back to that fuckin’ place- so just be a good soldier and let me die.”
Another few steps forward, as a familiar, yet warm orange paw settled on his shoulder.
Son of a-
“Can’t let you do that, Star Wolf.”
Oh, how life could really be so goddamn funny.