Flight Academy Grounds, One Week Later

For the senior students of the Academy, or "Aces", first light through the Sky Dome's artificial clouds meant the start of a long day of boring flight exercises. But for the Simian laborers, it meant getting everything ready.

Before the Aces had even set foot on the dew-laden lawn, lost in oblivious chatter and idly swinging their helmets, Venomian servants were already scrambling to prep ships for them. Without breakfast, without complaint, and with the steely gaze of Academy Security Dogs bearing down on them, monkeys swarmed the landing gear like ants, dragging fuel nozzles and yanking away landing braces from the ships' silver clawed feet. In no time at all, the air was awash in sweaty fur and overlapping voices. Somewhere in this chaos, Darragh—the squat, barrel-chested Howler Monkey acting as foreman—herded the others with a voice garbled in a rough Venomian accent.

"Look alive, grease monkeys! We ain't about to fall behind for a fourth time this week, y'hear me? Those ships better be primed fer takeoff, or I'll flay you open like no Dog ever could!"

Ships roared awake and bounded skyward, and halfway into his next batch of orders, Darragh's nostrils flared as he turned at the smell of smoke. Seeing a black fume rocket from the hull of a sputtering ship and engulf the Baboon leaning over its open hood, Darragh called out. "OI! What's going on over there?"

"I—haach—it's Master Fritz's ship, boss! She hot under the blouse, won't take off. Haven't the foggiest clue what's wrong with her!"

Darragh clicked his tongue behind his fangs and bolted up the ladder, fanning the smoke away.

"What in blazes—? This engine's practically melted! Run off and fetch Mr. DuPon! Tell 'im we need his wrench on this, on the double!" He adopted a far more ginger tone when he turned to the student waiting below. "Sorry 'bout this, Master Fritz. We'll get 'er up and running in no time at all."

Lounging by the ship's ladder and impatiently brushing a golden lock out of his eyes, the Retriever sighed. "Ugh. Just do it in this century, would you?"

The other monkeys nodded submissively, while Darragh's eyes continued to home in on the half-screwed bolts and clumsily re-attached wires within the ship's chassis. Realization made his fur bristle, and he beckoned the other scurrying Venomians with a sharp whistle.

"All o' you. Stow whatever you're doin', and get over here. Now."

The low boil of his voice instantly made the mob of grime-covered garage hands perk up. They circled him, out of earshot of the oblivious young trainees.

"Listen up," he hissed. "These ships were all up n' runnin' when I checked them last night—no one has access to the hangars b'sides us Simian folk. I've cleaned enough engines to know a tampered one when I see it." He eyed the pillar of smoke. "One of you's been inside that ship. Fiddlin' about."

A grim chill of panic was felt by all of the Venomian workers, which only grew with the sound of the ship groaning behind them. They all knew what unspeakable line the foreman was accusing one of them of crossing. It was a ludicrous stretch—but would spell doom for all of them if it was true. Especially if the Dogs found out.

Darragh knew it too, hiding his fear behind a scalding tone. "I know it was one of you. Ain't no running. Now who wants to save themselves a galaxy of trouble, n' come clean?"

The other monkeys glanced about awkwardly. When no one spoke up, Darragh instantly growled. "C'mon, you flat-nosed cretins! We're all gonna get it if I don't find the culprit, here n' now! Was it you, Hobb? Or you, Gellert?"

"No, sir!"

"Wasn't me, boss, honest!"

Darragh shot a feral hiss the Snub-nosed monkey and lanky Langur angrily, before he jerked his head up. "Wait. Where's Seamus?"

The taller monkeys shifted aside, placing a young Gibbon into view. He shrank nervously and taking a sudden fixation on his toes. Darragh's gaze and tone instantly hardened like concrete.

"I should have known. This WAS you, wasn't it?" He snarled and seized the boy by the scruff of his scrawny neck. "Out with it, boy! Your little shy act ain't gonna work today! If I have to beat the truth outta you—"

"I-I was just trying to help!" Seamus said, the pain of the Howler's nails digging into him loosening a whine. "I heard the e-engine makin' a weird noise after it docked, s-so I thought I'd try 'n…you know, fix it…"

The other monkeys groaned in exasperation, while Darragh's voice climbed to a monkeyish screech. "Fix it? Are you DAFT? You know that machinery and Venomian fingers don't mix! Y'know what the Cornies'll do to all of us if they find about this?" He looked around at the Academy Security Dogs watching from afar, seething. "What if your little 'repairs' ruptured the engine mid-flight? Killed a student? Do you even have brain up there?!"

Seamus pleaded beneath a sob. "I'm sorry. I d-didn't—"

His voice was cut off by the savage blow of the foreman's hand over his scalp. "You don't know what sorry is yet, boy! If I ever catch you even looking at an open engine again—"

Suddenly, the other monkeys turned paper-white, with one of them whispering. "Stow it, Boss! The commander…!"

They scrambled into a clumsy rank-and-file at the stern silhouette of Pigma, standing there with his arms folded, evidently having halted his routine jaunt around the school grounds. Darragh released the boy, hastily waving the rest back to work.

"Master Dengar! Good morning!" He made a valiant attempt at hiding the panic in his voice, wondering how long Pigma had been standing there. "Sorry about the disturbance, I was just diffusin' another brawl…you know how these young 'uns can be this early—"

"You weren't doin' anything of the sort," Pigma cut in. "I heard everything."

Disarmed into a frail gasp, the Howler croaked. "Master Dengar, I can explain—"

"Keep your voice down. Last thing we need is for this to blow up into a scandal." Pigma closed in. "I can turn a blind eye to a lot, Darragh, but not this. I'm the Head of Security…and I can't brush a hazard this big under the rug."

Beads of sweat charted a smear down Darragh's grimy face. "Please, sir. Y-You don't have to tell anyone—I can fix this, make it like it never even happened…!" His eyes darted desperately. "I'll crack down harder on Seamus. Keep 'im watched. Beat him every bloody day, if I have to!"

"You're runnin' a garage, not a Venomian shanty town," Pigma said. "I need a more permanent solution, D."

Darragh looked around at the other monkeys, looking uncharacteristically helpless. Placing his last desperate card forward, he let his head sink.

"It happened on my watch, sir. It's me you should punish, not these others," His voice hung for a moment. "They mess up here n' there, but…they're good boys. They don't deserve what the Cornies'll do to 'em."

Visibly uncomfortable by the monkey's groveling, and seeming to know how much rested on his next move, Pigma sighed. He out a Tundador cigar from his jacket, the kind he saved for stressful occasions like these, where big decisions fell to him instead of James.

"No, I suppose they don't deserve it," he grumbled, rubbing an eye. "So, for their sake, I'll keep a lid on this."

Darragh's eyes lit up. "You will?! Blimey, sir, I can't begin to thank you—"

"I'm not done yet," Pigma interrupted. "You were stupidly lucky it was me who stumbled on all o' this, instead a canine teacher. You n' I both know that they wouldn't have spelled for you all." He poised a warning finger. "If this happens a second time, I won't stick up for you."

Blotches of color returned to Darragh's face. "Y-Yessir. I understand."

"Get that engine fixed. Today." Mid-puff, Pigma pointed his cigar at him. "By the way…you boys had breakfast yet? You bunch are looking peakier than usual."

The Howler Monkey straightened diligently. "Won't hinder us, sir. We'll power through till our morning tasks are done."

Pigma scowled disapprovingly. "No, you ain't. When you're done here, you boys head to the Lunch Bay and get yourselves some oatmeal. And none o' that leftover crap…ask for a fresh batch. My orders."

A look of uneasiness gripped Darragh. "That's mighty decent of you, sir, but…you oughtta be careful, doin' favors like that so openly to folks like us. I mean, won't your bosses say something?"

A scowl clenched Pigma's doughy cheeks. "If it came outta anyone else's mouth, maybe I'd care. Cornerian High Command's got a lot of things: my loyalty, my starship…but never my respect. Not with how often they screw over my Team." He blew an angry puff, glaring off into the school grounds. "We're two different species, D, but we got one thing in common…we both gotta bend over to a pack of dogs."

"Would you like me to file that complaint to Command, Mr. Dengar? Or would you rather do it yourself?"

The sharp voice made Pigma whirl around. Marching towards him with an escort of hulking Security Mastiffs was an elderly creature in an olive-green overcoat—who after moment's squint, Pigma realized was a poodle, and an unearthly shriveled one at that.

Age had whittled her to the size of a rat. The wispy clumps that made up her ears were no longer white, but mottled to bone yellow. Her face was a frail canvas of sinew and bone, with paper-thin fur stretched over her snout, rendering her features angular and birdlike. But none of it seemed to hinder her: not her commanding stride, or rigid air of authority, or steely eyes that had the reach and lethality of a well-aimed sniper bolt.

"I'm sure the High Generals would prefer your thoughts in person, not through gossip," She crowed. "You'd also do well to remember that the CDF isn't paying you to chortle with the help."

Her bloodshot eyes shifted to Darragh, who scampered off fearfully. The degrading gesture set Pigma off instantly, making him face her.

"Am I supposed to know who you are?" He snapped. "Or why you're struttin' about like you own the place?"

The Poodle's thin lips curled into a haughty smirk. "As far as you're concerned, I do own the place. Me and the people I represent." She tapped the platinum star cluster medal pinned to her uniform. "Admiral Judith Wyncott, Motherworld Federal."

Pigma didn't sully himself with a salute. He'd learned a long time ago he'd gain nothing from bowing to the whims of the Cornerian Elite, regardless of rank. He'd only ever be a lowly hired gun in their eyes, the third wheel of the Star Fox Team. Nothing more.

"Command sent one o' their own, instead of a desk jockey? I'll be damned." He folded his arms jadedly. "Here to see the view from the bottom of the ivory tower for once, have you?"

"Oh, how cute. You're trying to have an attitude." Wyncott put on a leathery smile. "You'd better be careful, dearie. That big mouth might get you in trouble one day."

"If I do, it won't be from you," Pigma said, unintimidated. "After all, who'd fly all those dirty covert missions that the rest of the Cornerian Fleet's too good for, if something happened to me?"

She plucked off her gloves, tossing them nonchalantly to one of the guards behind her. "You wanna whine about your duty to us? There's a dozen barkeeps in Corneria City who'll happily listen over a glass of cheap gin. I, however, have a schedule to keep." She drew a virtual clipboard. "I'm here to conduct a lookover of your school."

The Hog blinked. "A lookover."

"Yes. To make sure our future recruits on the right track. Call it a 'surprise inspection' of sorts."

Now, Pigma was really puzzled. The Cornerian higher-ups were usually hands-off when it came to the Academy, trusting him and the other teachers to fashion the best and brightest pilots for them. There had never been any reason to doubt the school's centuries-earned prestige. No reason to meddle. So why meddle now…?

"A bit outta the blue, ain't it?" He narrowed his eyes. "What brought this on, exactly?"

Wyncott stiffened. "That's for McCloud's ears, not yours. But you needn't worry." She flashed a smile that didn't match her cold eyes. "Unless you're afraid I'll find some irregularities with your faculty and staff."

"Not particularly," Pigma answered confidently. "I just thought that with all this free time, you folks would be helpin' us with more pressing matters outside the school." He paused curtly. "Like finally helping James in that investigation he proposed in that dossier…assuming it isn't gathering dust on your desk."

The Poodle's smirk dropped. "Corneria concerns herself with real threats…not ones your Leader dreamt up."

Pigma curled his lip. "Funny how he's not a dreamer when it's time to save all of your asses."

"I'd like to get out of this artificial sun," she crooned impatiently. "Make yourself useful and summon that Leader of yours, would you? The CDF's time isn't as readily expendable as you believe."

Pigma wore a sly smile, suddenly disposed to obstruct her as much as possible. "Well, if James is in the middle of a lesson, you're gonna have to learn to wait. Ain't patience one of the qualities of a good Admiral?" His comm went off, cutting him short. Frowning, tapped his earpiece. "Dengar on. What's up?"

"M-Mister Pigma!" A shrill voice blared onto his headset. "This is Roberta, from the Map Observatory—there's ANOTHER incident going down, and it's going bad QUICK. I tried stopping him, but he won't listen to me—"

Pigma dug his earpiece in. "Slow down, Bertie. Who won't listen to you…?"

"James, of course! He's gotten into another spat with—with You-Know-Who! They're painting the walls red with how hard they're at each other's throats—and no one can pull 'em apart! Teachers, students, security, no one!"

Shooting a frantic glance at the Vice Admiral behind him, Pigma spat back into the comm piece. "Don't get involved. I'll be down there in a second!"

---

Simple Map Generator Room

Just once, James wanted to have a normal school morning.

That tranquil mundanity, far away from the chaos of his Star Fox missions, of hosting these flight lessons where he relished the pride of watching kids bloom into talented pilots, was something he hadn't savored in what felt like ages. Instead, he found himself staring yet again into the defiant purple eyes of the only teenager whose attitude he couldn't wrangle in without straining his voice.

"…Now, you're gonna climb back into the simulation and finish it like I tell you," He barked. "Even if I have to drag you by your ear like the child you sound like right now…because if that's what it takes, so help me, I will!"

Wolf stood higher, compensating for the gulf in height between them. "If anyone's ears get stretched, maybe it should be yours, old man! 'Cause at this point, that looks like the only way I'll ever get you to LISTEN to me for once!"

"Believe me, the whole world can hear your belly-aching," James snapped. The savage tone he reserved for his enemies and kept far away from his students, was the only thing that worked. "And it won't stop spinning if you take on the Support Flier role…especially when, whether you like it or not, it's the exact change of pace you need!"

"No, it's the exact change of pace YOU need!" Wolf snarled. "I'm not kowtowing to your little farce any longer!"

James felt his fur singe with irritation: the hostility in their voices was frightening half of the onlooking students and entertaining the rest. Their eyes ping-ponged between the two speakers in excitement, just like they always did during these explosive bouts that had become a fixture of James' lessons. At least, any lessons involving Wolf.

More and more, James found himself kicking himself for foolishly indulging the boy's competitive spirit with that race the other day. A loss like the one Wolf had suffered had been a long time coming: smug little egotists like Wolf always learned best through embarrassment, not discipline. But shaming him in front of the other kids hadn't been done purely out of spite. On the contrary, James had hoped it would breed some much-needed humility, and get the boy back on track. James personally didn't care if Wolf became a pilot or not—but the fact of the matter was that Wolf was falling behind. He was letting this competitive rift between them distract him, hobble him behind the others…whether he realized it or not. And by cutting him down to size, James had hoped to give him that wake-up call he needed; to drop this stupid rivalry between them. To move on.

Instead, that incident had produced the total opposite. Wolf's defiant streak had been inflamed by it, and worse, he never ran out of energy. He'd turn up to class even more fired up, seemingly bent on starting something, as if an anxiety gnawed at him to make him feel like he'd lose something far larger if he didn't challenge James on the regular. James didn't know or care what that was: he just wanted his peaceful mornings back—stress-free, and hopefully one day, Wolf-free.

"You forfeited the right to belly-ache when you lost our wager, Cadet!" he said. "No backtalk, no crying—just flying my way. That was the muzzle you agreed to, so stop biting against it!"

"Flying your way doesn't mean lying down while you neglect your authority!" Wolf said. "I'm sick of it, James. Sick of you holding me back, shuffling me to the back of a squadron to play babysitter every round—"

James fought back an impatient growl. "Everyone has to take on these lesser flying roles in the exercise, not just you!"

"'Cept they don't get stuck doing them as often as I do, do they?" Wolf spat angrily. "They don't have a teacher hellbent on sabotaging them!"

James' eyes briefly rolled above his sunglasses. "You're imagining things. As usual."

"Am I?" Wolf jabbed a clawed thumb at himself. "Then why am I the only one stuck flying the same role for weeks on end? Why am I stuck babysitting others with cover fire, instead fighting at the front where I should be?"

"Pilots fly where needed, not where they want," James said bluntly. "And basking in the limelight of flying Alpha won't get you the restraint and self-control you sorely need—playing Support Flier will. That's all there is to it."

Wolf rose up. "Is it? Or is snubbing me out of flying Alpha your way of ducking out of teaching me the moves I need to be flight lead?" He scowled. "After all, that would mean doing your job, wouldn't it?"

The way he craned up aggressively at James, snarling within an inch of his face, sent a flush of astounded gasps rippled among the onlooking students, all of them gob-smacked at his audacity.

"I'll tell you I think, McCloud." Wolf's eyes flashed accusingly. "You're avoiding me."

James fought a snort. Sometimes this kid's bloated sense of self-importance impressed even him. "C'mon, pup. This is paranoid and desperate…even for you."

"Play coy all you want," Wolf snapped. "Cling to that lie about 'self-control' for dear life, if you want to. But we both know that's not the reason you keep flinging me to the back to play Support Flier every class. It's spite."

And there it was, like clockwork. James let out a knowing groan. "Of course. Because I'm out to get you, right?" He folded his arms. "You know, a far more nefarious plan would be to just fail you."

"You aren't dumb enough to risk your job," Wolf said quietly. "But you are mad that you have to stomach being near me, teaching me every day…dealing with me buzzing in your peripheral vision. And since you can't bump me off to another teacher, you're shoving me to the back, where you never have to deal with me!"

This time, James let himself laugh. "Weren't you the one caterwauling about how I'm constantly over your shoulder, never giving you the space to fly on your own? Now, I give it to you, and you still complain?" He smirked. "Pleasing you is impossible, pup."

"Save your lies!" Wolf bristled furiously. "I can see right through you, James…clear as glass! You can't stand being stuck teaching me. It's unbearable for you, like a stench...so you're letting me languish instead. That's what 'flying your way' means, doesn't it? Flying Support, out of sight and out of mind, just the way you like it!"

James dug a fang in his tongue, angry and embarrassed. Not for himself, but for Wolf, and the spectacle that he was making of himself. "You're yanking a lot of personal baggage into this, Cadet. And this isn't the time or the place for it. We can discuss this later—"

"'Later'?" Wolf snapped, at high volume. "When's that, once I've been stuck in the rut of flying Support so long, I never become a better pilot? That I flunk out? 'Cause I'm starting to think that's what you want!"

James glowered down at the boy blocking the flow of his lesson—running all over him where all the other Cadets could see it. One look at their impressed looks told James that if he didn't wrench back control of his classroom now, his pupils would never respect him again.

"I'm not wasting anymore time indulging your paranoia, pup," James snapped, voice hard as concrete. He brushed past him. "Now get back in line."

As he tried to brush past him, Wolf roughly obstructed him. "Oh, so you can keep getting away with it?" He snapped. "Yeah, I bet you'd love that. That I wouldn't speak up, and expose you."

James snapped. "That's enough, pup."

"Must be great, it isn't it?" Wolf mused spitefully. "Being the beloved idol and teacher that no one ever questions, the hero everyone worships. Gives you the long grass you to hide in, the excuse to keep sabotaging me without anyone noticing. Just the kind of cowardice I expect from the legendary James McCloud!"

There it was: that uncanny resemblance, rearing its ugly head from the mists of the past. A glare that James had come to revile. He was determined not to let this kid get a rise out of him, but it was hard not to feel his fur nettle when he saw that familiar, insufferable scowl of defiance…Maxwell's scowl.

"When I make a call as your teacher, Cadet 64…I can assure you, it's not an excuse. It's an order," he snapped.

Wolf snarled. "You're making the call that's convenient for you! Neutering my flying skills by chaining me to the back where I can never test them, and you never have to polish them! Where I'll be the failure you want!"

Without thinking, James bit back. "If you're a failure of a pilot, you can be damn sure I'M not the reason, pup!"

He only realized the savagery of what he said seconds after they tumbled out impulsively. His stab of regret was instant, made worse by the shocked laughter from the other trainees thinking it had been on purpose. He bit his tongue as he watched Wolf's face flush furiously. "The hell is THAT supposed to mean?"

"No, I—There's—" He clamped his mouth. "I shouldn't have said that. It was a slip—"

"So I was right!" Wolf shouted, now in real rage. "That is what you think of me! You're neutering my flying skills because you've already written me off!"

"Calm down, cadet," James shut his eyes exasperatedly. "That isn't what I meant at all. You're reading too much into—"

"No. You're not running away from this. Maybe the reason I'm such a 'failure', and my flying isn't getting any better, is because you're a lousy teacher!" Wolf growled viciously. "Why don't we have a go in the Sim, one-on-one, and see just how good I am? That is, if you have the spine to!"

James groaned, realizing what he'd unleashed, that Wolf's bruised ego wasn't going to be soothed any time soon. He nearly jumped out of his fur when he heard a small voice clear its throat behind him.

"Commander?" The Junior Officer who had just entered the room saluted. "Pardon me, but Mister Dengar told me to let you know—"

Exasperated anger made James whirl around and bark down at him. "Not now!"

"B-But, sir, he's waiting for you outside. Said that it's something urgent," The Officer insisted. "CDF Buzzards, he said. If, uh, that means anything to you."

The sharp lines seeped out of James' greying features, as he suddenly straightened alertly. He turned his gaze to the roomful of students. "Class is dismissed. Clear the room."

"HEY! I'm not finished with you yet!" Wolf demanded fumingly. "You think you can just talk to me like that and run off? That's not how this works!"

"Cadet! Now's really not a good time. All of you go to your CQC Modules…and that means you too." He lowered his voice warningly. "Out, pup. I won't ask again."

Wolf must have seen the genuine alertness in his face, looking somewhat surprised, before he slackened his face back to its default, jaded state. He blew another angry breath—probably to wax his attitude in front of the other students—and followed the others out.

Precious silence returned to the domed room, where James stood alone, making futile attempts to regain his composure before he had to face anyone else. Never in a million years did he think the teaching job he adored would weather him like this.

Dealing with Wolf never used to be this hard. Back when he a brazen scamp in Peppy's care, ripe with attitude and back-talk to spare, James could shut him down with ease. It barely used to take anything—at most, the same firm tone he'd use whenever Fox used to misbehave. It used to work; in both households, with both boys.

Only Fox got more soft-spoken and obedient with in his teens, James thought. Wolf just got worse. He thinks he's a man, now...talking to another man. An equal. An enemy.

Even when I'm trying not to be.

That's what scared James the most: the boy was making him second-guess himself like no other student could. What if it was true? What if he was the problem? Maybe despite his best efforts to be a fair teacher, there really was a subconscious, cruel part of him that only came out around Wolf. Making him extoll little barbs of malice out on Wolf in subtle ways, without James even noticing it.

A swift block of denial came down to block all those anxious thoughts like a dam, and the Fox bristled.

Listen to you…as if he hasn't made enough of a fool of you already. This is all because you aren't hard ENOUGH on him. Letting him get under your skin in public, goading you into these endless shouting matches…till he's brought out an aggressive, ugly side of you the other children should never see…

It's how that brat keeps getting the better of you, he seethed at himself. He tries to push you into not acting like yourself…and you LET him.

Punching the slide door panel and flattening the plastic buttons far more harshly than he meant to, James inhaled before storming out onto the marble floor of the empty school foyer where Pigma was waiting.

"One day?" The Hog lowered his voice to a hiss. "You two couldn't lay off each other for one day? I'm starting to think you like getting into slapfights with each other!"

"Don't start," James said, speeding past him. "I just walked out of one skirmish, and I don't need another."

Scowling, Pigma broke into a waddle to keep up. "You want a good way to avoid laser-burns? Maybe stow all yer pent-up hatred for that boy back in the cargo hold for once."

James groaned. He didn't know how much gray fur he was going to have before he was done hearing this tired, obnoxious lie flung at him from his own friends. "Despite what you or Peppy may think, being concerned about the danger that boy poses all of us—and whose loins he sprang from—is not the same thing as hating him."

Pigma snout crinkled. "C'mon, Jim. He's not a kid anymore. Even I'm running out of bullshit to feed him whenever I have to convince him you don't despise him."

"I don't have the time in the day to hold a grudge against anyone...my duties barely allow me enough time in the day for my own son!" James growled defensively. ""You think I'd waste it tussling with some overgrown child?"

"I dunno, Jim. By my reckoning, he's not the only overgrown child in that room these days. Put a pair of Aviators on him, and he'll have all he needs to lead the Star Fox Team."

It was a rare thing for James to feel like he wanted to sock Pigma in one of his five chins; an impulse that hadn't come over him since they were ragged young teenagers, brawling during their first mission together. Instead, he settled for a venomous glower. "For your sake, I'm going to ignore that. Now, what's this business with the CDF that's so urgent?"

Pigma pointed behind him to the shrunken silhouette of a Poodle down the hall, arms crossed impatiently. "High Command sent someone to see you. And not just anyone…a Vice Admiral."

"An Admiral? Here?" James squinted, but failed to recognize her, before confiding a startled whisper. "A mission for us, maybe?"

Pigma curled his lip. "Not by the looks of it. Old broad said somethin' about 'inspecting' us on behalf of the Army, whatever that means. Wouldn't breathe a word more until she saw you."

That immediately set James on high alert mode. Short of a galaxy-wide emergency, there was nothing that could yank Corneria's military elite from their lavish towers in the Upper City. They certainly wouldn't dream of sending one of their own for something as medial as an inspection, not without some kind of ulterior motive. Gesturing Pigma to stay back, he approached the Poodle.

The closer he got to the small creature, the more startled he was by how frail she looked, which clashed paradoxically to the heavy, badge-bedecked military jacket draped around her shoulders. He approached her delicately, swiping off his sunglasses.

"We're honored to have you, Admiral…" His eyes found the badge embroidered into her jacket. "…Wyncott, is it? Always a pleasure to have a veteran walk through our doors."

His greeting seemed to pass through her, as the Poodle kept her frigid stare on her clipboard. "Hmph. Corneria's prodigal son reveals himself at last. You're a hard man to get ahold of, Commander McCloud."

Maintaining a warm tone, James awkwardly withdrew his hand. "Not at all. Star Fox is always delighted to take a house call from our friends in the Cornerian Army." He ignored Pigma's resentful grunt behind him. "Actually, if I knew we'd be hosting such a—distinguished veteran, I'd have made special arrangements—"

That got the Poodle's bloodshot little eyes to leave her clipboard and lock onto him. "Special Arrangements? Like a gravitational wheelchair, perhaps?"

James paused. "I was thinking more of an escort, ma'am."

"I know what you meant, McCloud," Wyncott snapped. "I'm an extension of the military, not a tea set. If I require a delicate touch, I'll ask for it."

Dipping his head, James offered a gentle tone. "No offense meant, Admiral. I'm just thinking of your comfort." He held out his arm to lead her down the hall. "Time's march affects us all differently."

Wyncott brushed past him stiffly. "Hmph. Indeed, it does. You're certainly graying faster than most foxes your age, I must say." She scowled about the marble columns. "I see this place has fallen victim to the times as well. Beltino took a few too many liberties with his redesigns, that clueless tadpole..." Squinting out the window, the ashen grooves of her face seared furiously at the sight of some girls chortling on the school steps. "And just look at these skirts! These girls are practically flaunting themselves, running around with their legs showing! How did modesty go out the window?!"

Rather than be incensed by her incessant complaining, James just chuckled. "Getting hounded every day by girls complaining about the old uniforms, is how," he said. "Believe me, I preferred them too. But after getting truckloads of our female students saying the old uniforms were getting the way of combat training, I had 'em changed."

Pigma piped up. "Can't say I blame 'em. Drilling and squattin' for a sniper position's hard enough. Imagine the living hell it must be to do it in a bonafide dress over yer knees."

"So, what you're saying that base, privileged comfort won out over propriety." Wyncott's glare froze over. "Things really have changed since my day."

James' smile faded. "I see you don't approve. If it helps, General Pepper also agreed to it."

"Pah. 'General' Pepper." She said it with such venom, as if the name left a knowing stain on her tongue. "Cornelius isn't the only person whose approval you should be wary of…which brings me to why I'm here." She swept a commanding claw at James. "High Command has ordered an investigation of this facility! And I don't mean a report…I mean a full-fledged tour!"

James looked at her blankly. "A tour?"

Wyncott tapped her clipboard impatiently. "Yes, at once. The training decks, the shooting ranges, whatever passes as a simulation these days, everything. I want to see the progress of Corneria's future recruits with my own eyes."

Blinking at the sudden, impromptu request, James straightened. "Of course. I'd love for you to see them." He gestured casually out the window, more determined to pass the thorny Admiral to someone else. "I'll have the Ace Pilots put on a demonstration for you. They just got done finishing up their morning routine, but I'm sure they'll be happy to—"

The Poodle's gnarled hand shot up to stop him. "You misunderstand me, Commander: I have no interest in your Ace students. I'm here to check up on your first-years."

Silence enveloped the empty hallway, as Pigma, who till this point had been struggling not to doze off as he leaned disinterestedly near the window, straightened up alertly. "Our…first-years?"

The Poodle rolled her bloodshot eyes impatiently. "Yes, specifically the ones who came in on the Rehabilitation Program. The impoverished ones, remember?"

A confused look crinkled James' brow. "Why the interest in them? They're progressing same as the other kids."

"Pardon me, Commander, but they aren't ordinary kids," Wyncott clarified. "They're an investment. Precious time and Lylatines went into scooping them up from every orphanage or felony hall. Or did you really think the CDF would toil over such valuable seeds, and not give them special attention?" She opened her clipboard. "I'm here to make sure they bear fruit."

James' ears flattened. He should have known that the Cornerian Army wouldn't have liberated a bunch of orphans out of the goodness of their heart. "I don't know what grand plans the Fleet has for them," he assured mincingly. "But rest assured, they'll rise to the challenge, once we're through disciplining them."

Wyncott's eyes became frigid and unimpressed. "Reassuring as that might've been once, neither I nor my superiors are convinced you'll have the same kind of success with this lot." She strode past him, but kept her voice tightened on him like a noose. "Half of them are too sheltered, while a dangerous number of them have certain…prickly unruliness that'll make them less susceptible to military discipline. They'll be resistant. Wild."

James eyed her wryly. "I don't know if you've noticed, ma'am, but I've spent the last decade fashioning Corneria's Finest out of bratty kids. 'Resistant' and 'wild' is kind of my specialty."

"We aren't dealing with your usual unruly schoolboys." Her feet stopped in the pool of light spilling out onto the marble floor from the window, casting a long shadow for such a small creature. "These are orphans, delinquents we're talking about, mired in a thicket of social quirks that'll set them apart from their peers. Whipping them into shape will take a firmer, more uncompromising hand than you're used to giving…" She glanced back at him. "…an inadequacy present in all your duties as the head of this school."

"Inadequate? Him?" Pigma blurted. "You have any idea who you're talkin' to, lady? Who d'you think—"

Raising a hand to reign him in, James fixed his gaze on the Poodle. "Cornelius hasn't voiced any concerns about how I've run things before."

"Of course, he hasn't. Pepper's done a remarkable job sheltering you from the mounting criticism rising from the other branches of High Command." She leaned in, filling James' nostrils with her musty odor. "Never forget, McCloud—the rest of us didn't pick you to run this place. Everyone knows that Pepper passed over other candidates—better candidates—to put a friend and protégée in charge of this Academy."

James' face turned to iron. "I don't remember any nepotism accusations when I was churning out pilots for the Fleet for twenty years."

"Things change, McCloud," Wyncott said. "Regimes change. And Pepper's blind confidence in you is something the rest of the High Generals don't share. Especially General Mastrix."

Silence hollowed the corridor, as a very different air fell on the two pilots. James' confident façade broke entirely. "Mastrix is in on this, is he?"

"Yes…" A slow smile crinkled its way onto Wyncott's snout. "Your old teacher from here at this school, I'm told."

James stiffened right down to his tail. "That's hardly relevant."

"Nevertheless, he's voiced a concern that the rest of us have already been thinking: that despite your illustrious reputation, you have a tendency to be soft. Too soft. On your staff, on your Venomian workers…"

The Fox's voice shot to a bark. "The 'soft' way I run things around here wasn't a problem for the High Generals when I was pumping out the army of pilots they wanted!"

"Back then, it didn't pose a problem," Wyncott replied calmly. "You and I both know that when dealing with a bunch of orphans, you'll be tempted to soften your approach…to father them. Or even sink to juvenile banter with the more difficult ones."

James almost smiled scornfully. "That's a lot of bold claims and not an ounce of proof, ma'am."

Wyncott's eyebrows rose to her mottled poodlecut. "Oh? Then what about that student you were diffusing just now in the Map Room?" Her bloodshot eyes fixed on him triumphantly. "Not a regular occurrence, I hope?"

The smile below James' whiskers vanished. "I deal with an overzealous student or two. But I'll see that he's corrected—more flight practice ought to knock the wind out of his sails."

"Not good enough. Proper discipline causes a bleed, not a sore spot," The Poodle gnashed her teeth, before scribbling down on her clipboard. "Given that his age, I'd recommend fifteen lashes."

James' voice took a hardened, protective tone. "How I punish my students is my business. This isn't the navy: Most of these students are still children, after all. Teenagers…but still children."

"Not the ones that belong to us. That's what you keep failing to grasp, McCloud," Wyncott snapped, aiming her pen at him. "Parentless students we pooled from the gutters and shanties throughout the galaxy…they're property. Our property. And we didn't invest money into them so they can grow into weak soldiers."

He clamped his mouth. "You have to give them the breathing room to grow first, Admiral. That's all I'm doing."

"Not fast enough," Wyncott said flatly. "Not if I don't change the way things are run around here. That's why I've been sent to evaluate this facility, and determine what—or more pressingly, who—needs replacing." Her shriveled lips curled into a smirk. "And believe me, no one is off the table."

Pigma looked like he'd just about had enough of this tiny dog. He jabbed a stubby finger at her. "Now, listen here, granny. You can't just barge in here, and—"

"When your copilot learns to shut up," Wyncott cut over him, keeping her eyes on James. "Tell him that on CDF High Authority, I can correct any maladies that I see in an instant. I expect Star Fox's full cooperation in enacting changes where I see fit. Do yourselves a favor—don't outstep your boundaries while I'm at it. Clear?"

James felt his stomach hollow out. Suddenly, tearing out his fur in another argument with Wolf wasn't the worst part of this morning; Now, he had to deal with some CDF official twisting his arm until he kowtowed to her whims. And kowtow he would, if he didn't want to jeopardize his position.

That was what all the students, and indeed the wider public, didn't know about James' role at the Academy: it was seen by High Command as purely secondary, an informal perk afforded to him as a dutiful naval asset creating more naval assets. But the moment he couldn't be trusted to churn out gifted pilots, or he let it impede his other duties…he would instantly be removed. Taken from the students whose growth and bright smiles he cherished.

Celebrity status or not, he was still just another Cornerian pawn. And he would serve his use and move as he was told, or be taken off the board entirely.

Cornered and angry, his head fell slightly as he offered a humbled uttering of: "…Yes."

"I'm glad you understand," Wyncott cooed. "Now then. Let's get this tour underway, shall we?"

Clicking his wrist comm on, James nodded. "I'm sending a schoolwide message to the other Instructors to let them know a guest will be stopping by their classes. A Junior Officer will escort you around—"

"The Junior Officer is not the chief authority here. You are." Like steel trap, the Poodle's voice snapped over him. "You will give the tour."

James didn't even need to look at Pigma to know how hard he was fuming. Watching this lady talk down to his Leader like he was her personal manservant clearly didn't sit well with him.

"With all due respect, ma'am," James said quietly, before the Hog could open his mouth. "The day is early, and I still have classes to conduct. So you'll have to make do with an Officer, and send any mandates to me electronically."

The Poodle stiffened. "Commander McCloud, you assured me that you were going to comply with—"

"I am complying." James strolled through the hall doors, his formal tone layered with frigidity. "But I can't make the CDF its dream army by neglecting my duties, can I?"

---

Forehead pinch for dogs. Base of the throat for birds. Top of skull for reptiles.

It was that gospel of anatomy that Instructor Rivaldi was trying to impart to his students, as they went up against rows of automatons on the Fitness Deck. Disciplined as he was, the Crane always found it hard to watch the Cadets struggle like moths pinned under glass, being pushed to their physical limits as they traded jabs with sparring bots.

The Gust Mk. V automatons, or "Bruiser Fives", didn't cast the most intimidating silhouette: stocky, wrapped in white plastiplate and without legs, they were little more than torsos and featureless, mannequin-like heads. But Rivaldi knew fighting them was still hard; His student days were years behind him, but he still remembered the biting sting of those metal arms, even under all the Dexofoam padding. And yet these poor students still took each hit with stride. The air was filled with their sweat and grunts of frustration, all of them taking more jabs than they landed. And yet, amazingly, they were holding steady, having risen to the steep physical demands of the class in only a few weeks.

It was just a shame that Vice Admiral Wyncott couldn't see it in their bodies, much less be impressed with them. She just scribbled on her electric clipboard, sparing only the occasional disinterested look upwards.

The Crane tried to advocate for his students with an enthusiastic wing sweep. "Listen to them, Admiral," He beamed at grunts ringing around the room. "Nothing like the sound of hard work and perseverance paying off."

"I'd prefer the sound targets being hit with pinpoint accuracy," Wyncott said coldly. She glanced at the automatons "So, the children have their knowledge of enemy anatomy tested by these…punching bags, do they?"

"Give them a little credit, Admiral," Rivaldi insisted. "Memorizing points of paralysis for all species between getting socked in the face is no small feat. They've never done anything like this before. It's a miracle they even—"

"Yes, yes I know." The Poodle let out a bored sigh that ruffled her ratty perm. "How many hours a week did you say they do these sparring matches?"

"Eleven, ma'am."

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "No wonder their muscles aren't up to snuff. We've got to get them toned in this century, don't we? She scribbled a line on her clipboard. "Double their hours. Draft a new schedule for them, if you have to."

Keeping his wings folded business-like behind his back and squeezing them helped alleviate the Crane's squirm of discomfort. "Admiral, it's probably not my place to give any advice…"

"You'd be quite right about that," Wyncott said, not looking up from his clipboard.

Rivaldi bit back any annoyance from peeking through his voice. "...but I would exercise caution in how you push the Cadets."

Wyncott shrugged casually. "I don't see why I should." She darted her bloodshot eyes towards the children. "They're young, they have energy and vigor to throw around…a few more hours of exercise will be good for them."

"I'm sure you have nothing but good intentions for them," the Crane lied through his teeth, desperate to reason with her. "But we're talking bodies that aren't used to that kind of strain. The ones that don't buckle might sprain something in the heat of overconfidence. Tear something loose. Which means weeks of stitching 'em back up."

"So, stitch them up. That's what the infirmary is for." She waved a gnarled claw at him. "I'm not having any noodle arms on my pilots. See that McCloud implements the new schedule by week's end, won't you?"

The Crane glanced helplessly at the students, glad that they were too far out of earshot to hear the callous dismissal in the Admiral's voice. Exasperated anxiety he couldn't voice without threatening his job ruffled his feathers, as he wondered how he was going to explain these grueling changes to the kids…how it wasn't him punishing them for anything they had done.

The Poodle bared her yellowing teeth in a groan. "I've seen enough children whacking machines. Do they ever spar with any live targets?"

"Certainly, with each other."

"Have them do it for me, then. Immediately."

Bottling all of his patience and restraint with a sigh, the Crane clapped his feathered hands together and called out: "Alright, Cadets. Pull out the mats and pick partners…the Admiral wants to see you spar. Now, please!"

Across the room, Fox looked up and groaned. "Oh, great. Time to get flattened. Again."

"Hey, don't get so down," Elaine reassured, standing next to him. "Why don't we partner up? You might stand a better chance against me than some of the guys around here."

Relief brightened the boy's features. "That might work," he inhaled. "I might actually beat someone this time."

The lovely Samoyed frowned. "Better curb those hopes. I don't know if anyone's told you, but I haven't lost to anyone in this school yet."

"Oh." Fox's face fell in dismay. "R-Really?"

Elaine giggled and playfully dragged him over to one of the mats. "Come on, tough guy. I'll try not to squash you."

As everyone gathered in pairs, stretching in their elastic fitness suits as they took wrestling stances around each mat, Wyncott suddenly narrowed her eyes into sunken slits. Her snout bobbed into a head-count of the room.

"Is it my imagination, or is one of your students missing?"

The Crane looked up. "Hmm? Oh! That would be Cadet 64. He, um, he isn't taking part in today's exercise."

Pursing her lips, Wyncott began scribbling on his clipboard. "Why, is he sick?"

His response came staggering from behind a labored pause. "Not…exactly. We've chosen to exclude him. He's just not exactly cut out for this kind of class."

The Poodle's pen stopped. "On what basis? A disability?" She frowned. "If one of the CDF's Future Finest is carrying any physical ailments, I should've been made aware much earlier."

"It's not physical, per se…more social in nature." Rivaldi scratched his feather apprehensively. "He doesn't gel well with the other kids, especially in an environment as tense and competitive as this one. So we've opted to create some isolated training for him…"

Enraged, Wyncott's fur and voice spiked up. "Under whose authority?"

"Calm down, it wasn't my decision, ma'am! The whole faculty thought it was the best thing for him!"

The Poodle's yellow teeth came out. "This is a military facility, not a nursery! You are forbidden from sheltering any students from their training, however harsh." She growled. "Bring the Cadet here! This special treatment ends today, do you hear me?"

Looking around quickly, the Crane lowered his voice to a near-inaudible hiss while gesturing the dog to do the same. "It's not special treatment, ma'am…it's a precaution."

He leaned inward towards the confused Poodle, whispering something out of the earshot of the other students. The Dog's angry look faded, and she looked back at him strangely.

"…My word. Is he…loose?"

Rivaldi threw up a dispelling wing. "No, no. Monitored at all times, and perfectly safe to be around." He cleared his throat. "But you can understand our reluctance to feed that aggression of his. Wouldn't want to recreate the incident that got him put away in the first place."

"I suppose not…" The Poodle conceded a bite of her lip. "But delinquent or not, he can't be allowed to fall behind."

"Which is why we've arranged for a contact-free alternative away from the other kids," the Crane declared proudly. "One that's a little more…his speed."

Wyncott frowned. "Define 'his speed'."

---

Foam padding or not, the monstrous weight of the metal arm hammered on Wolf's forearm guard with a knifing jolt, hard enough to make him stagger back but not enough to send him toppling over.

Gathering his ragged breath, Wolf kept his eyes trained on his "partner": the Bruiser 5X, a mobile, meaner variant of its stationary sibling. Its clawed feet sent a daunting rattle throughout the empty hangar set aside for Wolf's sparring sessions, filled with a mob of duplicates who all circled Wolf patiently in lockstep. Taller than a mountain lion and more agile than most reptiles, the 5X's had actually been decommissioned for years—once a teaching tool by a colder generation of Academy faculty, only to be retired by James' generation, who deemed them "too brutal" for children.

A sentiment that remarkably vanished the day that Wolf arrived. By his teachers' reasoning, a troubled devil child like him wouldn't lust after bouts with other kids while he had these machines to gnaw on as a chew toy of sorts.

What the Faculty couldn't have possibly predicted was how Wolf would file his teeth on the bone they had thrown him, as he'd begun brawling with them constantly. Having tireless steel opponents seemed to egg on some internal perfectionist impulse inside of Wolf, to push himself as much as possible. It wasn't just because hand-to-hand combat was all that came easy to him in a blizzard of daunting classes…but because it was a refuge. Whenever stifling classes and controlling teachers became too much for him, this hangar was his one escape. Like a blacksmith neglecting sleep at his forge, here he could hammer against steel till he forgot about the outside world. Or at least, too numb to think about it.

Except today, something was off. He was going harder than usual against the robots, making a wilder, sweatier mess of himself than normal, and fumbling where he normally wouldn't. For all of his aggressive ducking and weaving, all his fierce determination to keep his pupils locked on his enemy through a frenzied curtain of sweaty fur over his eyes, he was catching more blows to his lanky frame than he was landing.

With every grunt, the tired threads of his angry voice thinned into a frail wheezes—so frail, that it made Mr. Dupon, the mechanic left in charge of supervising him, wince behind his control booth.

"Yeesh, I felt that one." The Racoon Dog shuddered, the fur fraying on his doughy cheeks. "C'mon, Cadet, call it in already! Another bruise like that, and you're gonna have more black rings around yer eyes than I do!"

Wolf bit back the pain of the welt swelling on his shoulder like a mushroom. "Maybe if you'd…stop with all your constant commentary, DuPon…." He forced out between deflecting metal punches. "…I'd probably do better!"

"I ain't the problem, and you know it!" The Raccoon Dog insisted. "Ya can't fool me, Cadet 64! You were in a bad space before you came in here. I dunno if you're stressed or what, but something's takin' your mind from the fight—and it ain't me!"

Wolf buttoned his lip into a scowl. The fact that he'd never admit that he was tangled in a bitter mood was made worse by his concentration constantly crumbling from a sound stuck in his head. A smug voice constantly replaying in the silence between strikes, gnawing at him…

Stop it. Focus on the fight. He shook himself. You're letting him win by giving free room in your head—

SLAM!

The price for failing to block the robot's foam-wrapped arm came in the form of a searing burn to Wolf's cheek, rattling him out of his thoughts like cold water. But then he had to make it all the more embarrassing for himself, by letting the gush of pain fray his fur down to his tail, like a feline dropped in a puddle.

"Ugh, what did I tell you?" whined DuPon, as he cupped his hands around his snout. "Oh man, that better not leave a mark. The Commander will KILL me…"

"Pipe down, I'm fine," Wolf snapped. Having an audience for his blunder stung his cheeks more than the bruise. Humiliation spurned him back to his feet, and back towards the blurry robots. "Start the routine over."

"Again? You've been at it for hours, kid! You tryna get me fired?!" DuPon bleated. "Just take that last hit as a sign, and hit the showers already!"

"I'm not quitting till I win a round," Wolf panted stubbornly, trying to squeeze some feeling back into his numb fingers. "Turn 'em on."

The timid mechanic ventured a sterner voice. "L-Look, Cadet…I know it ain't any of my business, but did something happen today? Y'seem to be blowin' off a lot more steam than usual."

Despite his exhaustion, an angry spike raced up Wolf's sweaty fur. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm just saying…" DuPon offered. "Whatever it is you're going through, there are better ways to deal with it. Healthier ways. If you push yourself like this…"

"HEY!" Wolf jabbed a claw at him from across the hangar. "Are you here to monitor these robots, or play guidance counselor?" He adopted a wobbly stance. "Just do your job and fire these bots up."

"Can't I at least turn down their aggression levels?"

"Now, DuPon."

DuPon sighed, muttering something about "rock-headed teenagers", before punching the buttons on his console. The row of automatons straightened threateningly, neon lights flashing and all barking from their vocal receptors:

"Randomizing attack pattern."

At blinding speed, they bolted forward with a deafening rattle, and making Wolf's heart jump. He was barely ready when the first unleashed a downpour of thrashes down on him. Its arms raked his forearms like asteroids thrashing a starship hull, making his face tighten as he kept his guard. He needed to wait it out, endure the bone-rattling pain until just the right moment…until he saw the "tell."

In a blinding rush of seconds, Wolf saw it: the stagger that all the robots showed in their pattern of swings, in that painfully narrow window just before the final one. Wolf didn't waste any time, using the precious few seconds to slip his hands between the robot's arms—prying them apart and leaving its torso open for a decisive chop.

There was no savoring the clatter of the robot hitting the floor: the other Bruiser-5X's wouldn't allow it.

Not even seconds after Wolf had sent the first of them tumbling did another step in to swing at him. Wide open, forced to deal with difficult AI levels he'd set for himself, and with no time to catch his breath, Wolf was helpless to it: the robot pounded two brisk, monstrous blows into his ribs, carving off a layer of fur and sweat. He had no choice but to take it, falling sideways like a klutz. To his credit, Wolf did leverage the space created between them to sweep into a roundhouse kick—but before his downed opponent even hit the ground, a knifing jolt to his back, sent him staggering, prompting him to swing a blind punch at the robot that had snuck up on him—only to hit the wrong one and have that one pummel him in the face.

Each time he threw one aside, another would storm up to him, then another and another. There was no space in their attacks. No room for error. The machines circling Wolf had no intention slowing their roulette of abuse.

Metal hands converged on him one after another, pelting him faster than he could swat them. Growls seeped through his teeth as he staggered drunkenly to keep up, damp tail smearing sweat on the ground like a paintbrush—

SLAM!

The hit that finally knocked Wolf out of the roulette came hard. Not a graze, but a smart, direct hit to his stomach that left a concave mark…and a nauseating churn. Wolf's breath was snatched from him as he fell to his knees. He let out something akin to a retching yell, curling into an agonized ball.

"CADET!" DuPon cried, before scrambling for the controls. "Oh, God. I'm turning these off—"

"NO!" Wolf's hand shot up. "Leave them! I can keep going!"

The Tanuki looked at him helplessly. "Dammit, kid, stop it already! You're gonna tear something loose! I'm a mechanic…I don't know nothin' about putting KIDS back together!" He stammered, trying to talk reason into Wolf as the robot marched over. "You think Commander McCloud would like to see you injure yourself like this?"

If the plump Raccoon Dog was trying to endear Wolf to him, he couldn't have picked a worse thing to say, or person to use. "I know Commander McCloud a lot better than you, DuPon," he growled, as he rose. "Believe me: He doesn't care."

Turning on the mechanic's shocked expression, Wolf hobbled towards the robots stampeding towards him...struggling to get off his knees, or be as confident as he was trying to sound. He couldn't imagine how stupid and in denial he must've looked: getting up to bite off more than he could chew, again. To try and force a stance out of his wobbly legs, again. To lose like an idiot, again. Any other day, he would've just caved in to his drooping eyelids and deflated lungs, and let himself collapse.

But thanks to DuPon's prying, Wolf's mind was once again yanked out of the fight. He wasn't cornered by just the robots, but the voice in his head.

"If you're a failure of a pilot, you can be damn sure I'M not the reason, pup!"

That was when Wolf snapped awake. Molten anger singed the nerves of his face, locking it into a scowl.

Abandoning all restraint, Wolf bolted straight towards the robots charging at him. All at once, his collision with them became far more personal: each snaking and pirouette more calculated, each punch drilling with far more savagery. He absorbed every biting blow, choked back every angry scream…refusing to let them stagger him. Refusing to let that voice in his head continue to mock him.

His breath sharpened, and his eyes became focused. Newfound clarity guided his hands as he built a gradual rhythm, stacking each punch like a brick—

"It's a miracle you managed to even land through the gates of this place."

Metal hands drove into his fur in tempo with James' disembodied voice, every condescending word from their past brushes bubbling up in Wolf's ears. He began to clench his teeth, giving into the ball of spite knotting his stomach. Letting it course through him, flare his senses like an intoxicating high—

"You being sent here is a mistake…"

Wolf stumbled back clumsily, teeth rattling from a blow to the face. A blood-curdling growl tore from his throat. He unsheathed his claws and began to tear through harder, shredded foam and twisted screws littering the floor—

"All that pretty talk about getting a fresh start, changing for the better…"

Every smug, divisive word churned Wolf's determination into a lather. Warped the pants slipping through his clenched fangs into a livid roar—

"We both know you have no intention of changing anything about yourself."

"HUAGH!"

Both his own voice and the high-pitched scrape of the last robot smashing the ground filled the air, sparks and tangled wire sprouting from the grisly claw-marks planted in its outer chassis.

Silence hung, save for the crackle or twitch of the defeated Bruiser-5X's strewn on the floor. Wolf stood there, breath hanging in tatters. And yet, he stood tall with his eyes hardened with a newfound resolve. For the first time in hours, confidence filled his sagging lungs, and washed over his sweaty face like cold water. His own angry defiance was the precise conduit he needed: his means of bring out the best in himself. Of shutting out the outside world.

Of shutting James out of his head.

Even as his mechanical partners lurched back up, Wolf pushed himself into a low-backed stride. In moments, he was diving and clawing his way through yet again, almost like nothing had been hindering him in the first place.

All while DuPon, retreating behind his desk and striped tail in terror, continued to watch.

---

Nothing sent Falco back to the "good old days" like a raging firefight inside the Simple Map.

Never did he ever think he'd ever miss the uncertainty of street urchin life: those days of constant rush and uncertainty, of brawling over scraps and racing through alleys of rain-soaked concrete. The longer he was cooped up in this school, stifled under the wool of pretending to be a good little student, the more cabin fever festered in him like a rash.

And the only cure for was the Simple Map's hardest exercise: the "Wasp Nest".

Simulating the dark bowels of a Fichinese Crystal Cave, with the AI taking the form of vicious Spice Bandits that attacked in waves from the shadows, the time trial seemed almost deliberately contrived to get the Cadets to lose patience and start firing blindly in the dark. For them, the sim was an agonizing pain in the tail. For Falco, the all-too-familiar frantic shouts and laser-smoke of a firefight was like slipping into an old chair.

Even now, while the other Cadets flinched as they took cover under the same rock bed, he smirked, wondering how any of them would fare against real bandits…like the one sitting next to them.

He snuggled lazily against the rock, which naturally was when that annoying Frog Kid decided to kill his vibes with that shrill voice of his.

"T-They're getting close. They're getting way too close!"

His wailing made Falco pop an eye open. The Frog was surprisingly talkative today. "Keep your head on. Sim ain't over yet."

"It might as well be!" Slippy shouted indignantly, hands shaking around his blaster. "We're gonna fail this mission! And this time, it's on YOU. You're not gonna blame me for this one!"

Falco shifted his weight to snuggle against the cover. "Ugh. Can someone shut him up? He's gonna give me a headache."

A Wallaby, with piercings running up her long ears, shot him a foul look. "Maybe you should listen to him! You led us here, Lombardi! We turned tail and ran, split our group in half, sacrificed so much ground, and for what? So we could just SIT here?"

"Hey, hey! Were you picked to play squad leader this round? No? Then stop complaining." Falco kicked his feet up confidently. "Now stop questioning my orders, and relax. I've got a plan."

"That's what you've been saying since you sent Katt and Meryl to the other side of the cave—YOWCH!" The Wallaby's fur bristled as a laserbolt caught her shoulder, giving her a Penalty Burn. "What's the goddamn hold up?! Either give us a hand, or just admit you don't have a plan of attack!"

Falco yawned.

"Lombardi!"

"Relax, I got a plan," Falco said, sneaking a sly look at the green crystal formations on the ceiling. Even they reminded him of the neon lights of his old city life. "…but it'll, uh, take another second or two to come together. So just hold out for little while longer, capische?"

If they weren't inhaling smoke from the crossfire, everyone would have groaned. One particularly irritated Skylark readied his rifle. "Screw this. You all can do whatever you want—I'm turning this battle around."

"Belay that." Falco's finger went up while his eyes remained closed. "Wait for the enemies to close in."

"Come the HELL on, Lombardi, the enemy's so close, I can practically smell their BO!" The Skylark looked like he was on the verge of molting. "You're gonna get us a big fat 'Mission Failed'! We need to fight back!"

"You'll shoot when I tell you to!" Falco's voice lashed out savagely. "I'm here to lead, the rest of you are here to follow. So, follow by sitting tight, and shutting up…if you're capable of that."

Feathers bristling, the Skylark glared at him. "You're getting dangerously close to pissing me off, Lombardi."

"Be pissed off, then." He yawned, ran his hands through the quaffed, styled plume of feathers up his brow, and snuggled back against the rock. "Just do it where I can't hear you."

By now, the Skylark had taken another Penalty Burn. Angry and open-mouthed, he looked around. "Anyone else wanna try talking to him?"

The Wallaby sighed, hugging the rock cover. "Don't look at me. I barely know him." She aimed a glare in Falco's direction. "I just that I hope I never end up next to him in a real battle."

He smiled with his eyes closed. "I'll remember you said that in a second."

Before any of them could turned their perplexed glances at him, a still silence perked their ears. The laserfire had ceased. A savage roar reverberated against the slick cavern walls as the Spice Bandits came into view: all wearing the same scrap armor, brutish mask, and uniform features to make it easier for the Cadets to distinguish them as the enemy. They bolted into a charge, illuminated under the glittering bushels of crystal overhead.

The sound of their boots thundering in unison made the Wallaby pale, as she let out a panicked shout. "LOMBARDI! We've got to move!"

It wasn't her voice that snapped Falco awake—it was when he saw the enemy change color, layered in the vibrant green hue of the crystals hanging overhead. Everything was in place. His entire demeanor changed as he straightened up, hand flying to his earpiece.

"Katt! Meryl! Take the shot, now!"

A cheeky voice replied. "You got it, hon."

"R-Right!" Another squeaked.

From deep within the western side of the cavern where the girls were positioned a pair of single, clean sniper shots sprang from the dark and shattered the orchard of crystals spiking the ceiling, reducing them to a powdery, glittering fume that blanketed the floor below.

One by one, the Cadets peered dumbfoundedly over cover, waiting for a stampede that never came. Like organic tear gas, the crystal ash kept the mob trapped, with only their furious coughing and blind blaster shots emerging. Without so much as a word to any of his squad mates, Falco vaulted up the rock wall, snatching up his rifle and thumbing the safety guard off the trigger in one swift movement. His boots barely grazed the top when, in a display of freakish avian agility, he kicked off into a dizzyingly high leap, diving headfirst into the cloud.

Falco could only grin as he burst through the plume of smoke, sailing above the blinded Bandits' heads, all of them tilting their heads in bafflement, their artificial intelligence racing to re-orient to the bird's bizarre methods—

Shwa-THOOM!

Too late.

Light and shadows danced in front of Falco's cocky smile as he sent a downpour of laserfire on his plunge down, the crumpling body of his first hit cushioning for his landing. In a blurring sweep, he fanned his rifle into a spray of fire around him, picking off the surrounding Bandits…the muzzle flash painting the surrounding cloud with flashes of red. The flash made Falco visible to every remaining Bandit in the mist, directing every rifle-barrel onto him. Thinking quickly, Falco dove down to slide on his knees, gravel flying past him as he avoided what would've surely meant a wealth of Penalty Burns.

He swung his barrel up and hammered shots into one Bandit after another. He whooped and snarled, his voice cleaving the occasional vacant air left after the deep bass of laserfire.

The other Cadets watching from the rock bed weren't sharing his sense of fun. "Is he gonna leave some for us?" one asked.

The Skylark rolled his eyes and raised his rifle. "C'mon. Better get some kills in before Mr. Bravado hogs 'em all."

While they all played catch-up, Falco continued to dive on ahead, leaving downed Bandits in his wake. It wasn't a grisly affair; Enemies fell without a groan or scream, and their deaths were a bloodless explosion of pixels. It was just pure entertainment, a surge of excitement as Falco raced between arcs of light, mowing down enemies, increasing his score…and widening the grin on his face.

For a few fleeting seconds, at least.

"Mission Failed."

Out of nowhere, like a biting douse of cold water, the battle came to a halt.

With a thunderous virtual hum, the dim caverns vanished, and Falco and his squad—which included a startled Katt and Meryl—found themselves standing in the sterile dome of the Map Room, the sweat and grime on their faces replaced only with puzzled looks.

Like a junkie yanked out of his euphoric buzz, Falco became agitated. "Oh, COME ON! For real?! I was on a roll back there! We had that battle in the bag!"

Drill Instructor Carver's impatient growl blared from the Observatory speaker.

"You didn't have shit in the bag, Cadet. How many times are you gonna make me restart the sim before you get it through your thick Avian skull that you're supposed to be playing Team Leader in this exercise?"

Falco rolled eyes. "I was leading! Didn't you see us pushing the enemy back, under my lead?"

"All I saw was you galivanting off into the fray with nothing but a rifle and a death wish, instead of guiding your team through the crossfire like you're supposed to. This ain't a Katinese fashion walk, so cut the showmanship!"

Falco's feathers bristled in annoyance. "It's not 'showmanship'. I fight better on my own—and if these deadweights in my squad can't keep up, that's their problem."

Infuriated glares from the other Cadets came in all around him, with even Katt hissing: "Falco!"

But ultimately, it was Carver's voice that flattened him. "Oho, well aren't we full of ourselves. Well, squad, you can thank your confident friend, 'cause his ego just bought you another round in Simulation!"

Everyone groaned and sent scalding looks at Falco, with the Wallaby gritting her teeth. "This isn't fair, coach! Why do the rest of us have to suffer for what this peacock keeps doing?"

"Suffer?" Carver sneered. "Why, I'm just giving you all some extra bonding time. You n' Bird Boy have all day to get to know each other, become pals…till he decides to pass the trial with tactics and team coordination, that is." His growl crackled the intercom. "Be good pals and encourage him, won't you?"

Realizing the seeds of resentment that Carver was planting between all the children to gang up on Falco, Katt hurriedly stepped in, putting on her best angelic voice. "He'll comply, sir. I'll make sure of it."

"We'll see," Carver grunted. "Take your positions. And that means you too, Lombardi."

Falco almost fired off another retort when he caught the silent, scalding warning that Katt was communicating with her eyebrows, one that clearly read: Shut your beak or I'll shut it for you.

Knowing the earload he was going to get later, Falco clicked his tongue back and skulked back in line. He cast his brooding eyes about; at the monochromatic ceiling, the tight suffocating uniforms. The static grey walls around him that seemed to close in tighter around him.

I don't care what Katt says…life on the streets might've been tough, but it wasn't THIS.

A full belly and a soft bed ain't worth forking over our freedom like this. Constantly cooped up, letting these adult pricks walk all over us… It's like an asteroid prison in these walls.

Falco's eyelids lowered in frustrated boredom as the holo-particles washed over him, and the sim started again.

I can't keep this up—I need some action, and fast. Away from these walls, away from these teachers…

…Before I lose my mind in here.

---

Observatory

Carver buried a rancid growl in the back of his throat, glaring at the impertinent Avian Student's outline on the massive screen before he punched the channel switch. "That'll make him popular. Goddamn punk."

"Aw, warming up to the new kids, ain't ya?" Sitting a few feet away, the ratty little Papillon technician, Roberta, cooed from her swivel chair. "Whaddya think, Neil? Think this Lombardi kid's the first student you can't budge…or maybe you've just lost your touch?"

The giant Painted Hunting Dog, despite being big enough to dwarf the girl with just his thighs, leaned next to her knowingly, chuckling at how she was just trying to get a rise out of him. "Well, if that's the case, I can always have you cook up a little nightmare in the sim for him. Maybe drop him into a Bacoon's belly, and let the stomach acid do the rest."

Roberta sighed wistfully, nibbling on a potato chip. "You always know the right thing to say to a girl, Neil."

Even a few of the other Flight Instructors peppering the room paused from their duties to share the laugh, before a shrill voice cut through the levity in the air.

"Excuse me, but are you going to stand around giggling, or make an example out of that student?"

All at once, the mirth dropped from everyone's faces. Admiral Wyncott was so quiet sometimes that they'd all forget she was in the room.

"I asked you a question." Her eyes locked on Carver. "Is that all you do to punish insubordination around here?"

Adopting a reverent tone, Carver tentatively set his coffee down. "Only while they're still new n' tender, ma'am. They're all still teenagers, y'know? They're gonna have an attitude."

Wyncott's pen lashed rapidly over her clipboard as she wrote, with only slightly less viciously than her voice. "Only because you aren't pushing them hard enough, Drill Sergeant. Challenging them hard enough."

Despite towering over her, Carver looked so nervous that he ultimately bit his lip into a nod, displaying a meek discomfort the other teachers almost never saw from him.

Pigma rose from his chair, refusing to let the Poodle's rank intimidate him. "Lady, these students ain't gonna get anything done with you constantly interfering."

Wyncott gestured at the screen. "Frankly, Commander, I'm starting to wonder if it's less my interruptions and more these utterly disgraceful simulations that are stifling the progress of these students."

Pigma raised his eyebrows. It seemed like every other second, this woman had a new complaint. "Okay, I'll bite. What's wrong with the sims, exactly?"

"Everything!" The Poodle hissed. "Use your eyes, Commander. There's barely a smidge of difficulty or an ounce of realism! For God's sake, you have the tech to bring these Cadets as close to the ash and blood of real combat without actually being there. Why, you could have them see and conquer every possible scenario in a week!"

"Yeah, we could. But none of them are ready for something that intense," Pigma said flatly. "That's why we have Content Inhibitors in place; to scale the sim down. To give 'em a fight they can handle."

"This?" Wyncott remarked scaldingly, flicking up a gnarled claw at the screen. "Fodder that my youngest granddaughter could beat? Waves of bumbling space pirates that make a 'Mission Accomplished' ranking a complete cakewalk?"

Pigma rolled his eyes. "At this current stage, yes. They're becoming pilots in four years, not four weeks."

"At the rate you're going? Pah! You're cushioning these children. Babying them." She pointed at Falco's blue outline on the screen. "That boy was treating the fight like a game—skipping through crossfire like it was an Eldardian poppy field…" She heightened the pitch of her voice to address the entire room. "These students know they're in a simulation, because you've tucked them into a sense of security that every battle's a low stakes affair, where nothing can hurt them. No tension. No terror. Nothing to forcibly sober them up. You're encouraging them not to take battles seriously, and worse—you're leaving them with a false impression of what true combat is like."

The way she swept her arm at the screen obstructed its blue glow, casting a shadow over all of them.

She strode up to Pigma. "You know what that creates, Commander? Worthless pilots. And that may be fine for any other planetary force, but for Corneria, I won't stand for it!"

Tense silence in the air left vacant from the Dog's brutal voice, broken only by the crunching sound of Roberta munching on chips as she watched the unfurling argument with huge eyes, savoring the rare bit of excitement rattling the static Observatory.

Pigma frowned. "Well, since you got all the answers, how do you propose we challenge these kids?"

Wyncott smiled winningly. "Toss them into the deep end. Make them believe they're drowning, even for a second, to see how they keep their heads above water." Her eyes scoured the buttons around the command console. "You can control the vividness of their simulations, yes? Dial up the realism levels to maximum."

Roberta nearly coughed out her chips. All the other Instructors turned, mouths just as wide open with shock.

"Out of the question," Pigma said flatly. "They're not ready for something like that. None of them are."

Wyncott obstructed him. "They're nearly adults, and certainly have confidence to spare…I don't see the problem. Why, if you simulate a real battle every practice, and you might even harden them into soldiers within a week."

"How's about you let them be kids before throwin' them into the meat grinder?"

The Poodle rolled her eyes. "Oh, what meat-grinder? We aren't talking about real combat. Just images being projected to their minds. None of it is real, so where's the risk?"

That was when Roberta chimed in for the first time, swiveling up in her chair. "Their minds! That's the risk!" When she realized how loud she'd blurted, she instantly brushed crumbs off of her Science League sweater and dipped her head respectfully. "Apologies, ma'am, but you can't treat this device like a Thrill Booth at an arcade! This is tapping into synaptic functions—all of their senses at our fingertips. That's why we have parameters. Suppressors. Penalty Burns. You turn all that off, and you might turn their brains into soup!"

Wyncott flinched, as if a fly had buzzed within her field of vision. "Commander Dengar," Why is this child on deck, and why is she allowed to talk like she has any place in an adult conversation?"

The technician in front of her frayed up, looking like she was going to launch off her chair into a furious canine tourettes. "Wha—? I'm 20 years old, you…you—!"

"Bertie, stow it." Using a warning glare, Pigma sent the girl back to her controls in angry huff before she could get herself fired. "And I'll have to ask you, Admiral, to keep it civil. We ain't Simian Workers for you to bark orders at.

Bitter disapproval somehow managed to sew even more crinkles in the Poodle's lip. "Maybe I should've asked them to teach today's lessons. They might show a little more backbone."

Pigma showed admiral restraint as he straightened. "Let me put this in a way you'll understand. You tamper with the sim to speed up these kids' learnin', you tamper with their minds—and lady, I don't care who you are back at Command, we ain't jeopardizin' the mental health of our students for you, or anyone else."

Wyncott stiffened. "That's your final word on the matter?"

"It's James' final word, which is the only one that counts. Mine wouldn't be as kind if I were in charge…'Admiral'." He nodded to the Hunting Dog across the room. "Mister Carver! How's about we shake up the leadership slot for the next round? And a change of terrain, too."

Carver nodded and tapped the intercomm switch. "Playtime's over, kiddies—Lombardi! You n' your feline friends hit the locker room. Everyone else, prep for a Wasp Nest skirmish on the Aquas Drydock Stage this time. Same rules."

Down below, Falco's arrogant snort crackled online. "Whatever. You're all welcome for the winning streak."

As he, Katt and Meryl gossiped their way out the door, Carver paused before clearing his throat into the mic).

"…Oh, and uh…Cadet 13, you take the lead this time."

The surveillance audio crackled as all the Cadets groaned loudly.

"Seriously?!" (The Skylark protested, turning to glare behind him. "You better not muck this match up, Slippy, or I swear—"

"HEY! Belay that talk, Cadet! Now get your tails into position before I kick them there!"

There were still a few grumblings as the students stepped back onto their assigned panels, as the room shuddered and hummed awake. Satisfied, Pigma turned towards the door, fishing through his jacket for his flask as he passed the Poodle. "Now if you'll excuse me, ma'am. Some of us got duties to attend to."

Wyncott didn't look at him, seemingly preoccupied with the exercise unfolding on the monitor. Her bony arms folded as she watched the flea-like silhouettes of the students battling on-screen, chewing her lip in disapproval that Pigma was very clearly savoring.

Still, when he found his flask at last and strolled out the door, he snuck a covert glance at Carver on his way out, one that clearly read: Watch her.

Both the towering Drill Sergeant and the other instructors went about their work, and it seemed like the Observatory had returned to its static doldrums. Some of them would sneak a glance at Wyncott, watching as she stayed unusually silent, waiting for scathing critique that never came. As the silence stretched, her behavior became more erratic; pacing without direction, growling and muttering to herself in uneven bursts, but never looking away.

Her eyes began to dart more and more over the monitor, twirling the pen in her gnarled fingers with a quiet, infuriated restlessness that was threatening to boil over. Then, her pen stopped twirling. Her gaze swerved to the chair next to her. "You. Bertha."

Roberta rolled her eyes). "Bertie."

"Whatever." She pondered over the screens for a moment. "You're sure that no actual harm can befall the students while they're in there?"

With a tired groan, Roberta winded back up her recited lines. "I told you, ma'am…it's against regulation to subject their minds—"

"Can they be physically harmed?" The Poodle snapped. "Yes or no?"

Rendered silent by a snarl as coarse as sandpaper, the young technician suddenly looked afraid, shrinking in her ratty sweater. "...No, ma'am."

With that, the Poodle fixed a shrewd gaze back at the screen. After she made some silent calculation, she jabbed a finger. "Increase the realism levels of the simulation."

The other Instructors froze. Roberta paled in confusion. "Ma'am, you know I can't do that…you heard Commander Dengar." (After a moment's discomfort, she finally reached for the panic button on her terminal. "And I really think you should leave before—"

Her fingers didn't brush the button when the Poodle's bony hand came down like a steel trap, pinning them to the board. Roberta was about to buck arm and angrily snarl for the Admiral to let go…only to look up, and see that a new look shrouded the Poodle's thin lips and beak-like snout. Both were warped to showcase a cordial smile that didn't match her eyes, the red-rimmed pupils of which were blackened with layered in an unmistakably threatening aura.

"Listen very closely, dearie," Wyncott said as she leaned, bringing her cracked and weathered landscape of a face close to Roberta's trembling one. "My report to HQ is already littered with changes I'm going to make to this school, and your name's a stroke away from being on it. I have the standing authority in the Cornerian Army to make your career short, and your life difficult." The corner of her lips threatened to change her parade of yellow teeth into a snarl. "Do you want to find out how, or do the sensible thing and follow my orders?"

Roberta looked confused and horrified, frozen at her console. An incensed Carver stepped forward.

"That's it, Admiral. You've had enough warnings, and now you're way outta line!"

Wyncott's sandpaper voice lashed at them. "Keep back! The first rat who steps forward is the first one that destroys their future with this fleet! I'll have you stripped of rank. Cast out. Disgraced, do you hear me?!

That made them all stop. Every instructor paled, every outburst of protest on the end of their tongue vanishing, with none of them possessing the spine to oppose her like Dunaway had.

She aimed a gnarled claw at them. "This is now a matter of Motherworld Security I'm taking into my own hands…and you'll let me, without a word to James McCloud. Because I can promise you, he won't protect you from me…not in this Fleet."

A powerless silence fell over the room, compounded by everyone clenching their fists and biting their lips. But none of them spoke; not while those medals and prestige bands hung from Wyncott's coat like barbed wire fence, reminding them all of her place.

Wyncott turned her hungry eyes back to Roberta. "Now, dearie… How's about we toughen up these kids properly, shall we?"

"You don't know what you're asking," Roberta croaked. "B-Believe me…."

"Oh, I definitely do. Raise those realism levels, won't you? And don't think of holding any back for their sake…"

A jolt of terror made Roberta's blood run cold as the old Poodle's spidery fingers around tightened around her wrist with alarming strength.

"…because I'll know."