Author Topic: Trippin'  (Read 1900 times)

« on: July 08, 2009, 09:08:13 AM »
A mindless one-shot about the bane of every Brawl player in existence, and a bird's internal struggles to cope with a recurring menace in his life. This is what happens when I'm up at 11pm/12am with homework to do and no desire to do so. Not a pretty sight by any stretch of the imagination.

The avian pilot leapt to the side in order to dodge a quick and ruthless attack by his powerful adversary. Falco Lombardi smiled to himself as he pulled out a blaster from his belt, letting loose a couple of quick shots to discourage any further action. How far had he travelled? Less than a decade ago, he’d been nothing more than a hoodlum, scouring the streets of Corneria City as a vulture would for weaker prey to pick on. He could recall it as though it were yesterday...

“Hey, you! Stop!”

“Not likely, bub,” shouted back Falco, sprinting like an athlete through the back alleys of the dank streets he called home.

One would think he would tire of this sort of lifestyle, but that one would clearly not know Falco very well. He lived to be on the edge, loved nothing more than the adrenaline rush of putting himself in actual, real danger. Now, with the Cornerian authorities running after him, stun guns firing at his nimble form, the danger seemed more real than ever. All he’d done was snuck into a couple of places here and there. Nothing at all, right?

Falco smirked. There was no way he could be stopped now. His rivals were weighed down with several more kilograms of heavy, bulky equipment, whereas he had nothing to contend with but the contours of the city he knew so well, and the slightest bit of wind ruffling his azure feathers.

Or so he thought.

Corneria, unlike many of the other planets in the Lylat System, was subject to a wide variety of weather conditions. Sweltering heat, chilling frost, powerful storms... and it had just so happened that the latest was rain. Rain that was making it very hard for Falco to maintain his balance, and rain that eventually caused him to flip sideways into a cluster of rubbish bins, with three guns barrels immediately pressed to his throat.

“Is it too late to come quietly?” he mused.

As it had turned out, that one stumble, that trip, had been his saving grace. After being chewed up and spat out by the legal system, Falco accepted a one-time offer to enter the Cornerian Army, where he’d met up with an idealistic young recruit named Fox. And, now... he was rubbing shoulders with the biggest fighters in the universe. If only he’d heard of them first...

“Hoo-argh!” the warrior yelled, thrusting his fist forward amongst a flurry of purple fire.

“Hoo-argh to you too,” Falco retorted as he stepped to the side, before delivering a strong kick to the head of his adversary.

He flew backwards with surprising force, in spite of all of his bulk and armour, and over the edge of the arena. Falco smiled to himself, taunting his recently-departed foe with a small salute. His physical fitness and combat smarts were at an all-time high, thanks to a mixture of his street skills and army-honed combat training. There was no way this medieval whacko was going to trash him.

“Foooxxx!!” whined his reptilian teammate.

Fox, Falco and Peppy sighed as one, lounging in their chairs and waiting for the high-pitched tirade from their junior squad member to cease. There was no questioning his commitment to the Star Fox team, nor his enthusiasm, just that his maturity needed a little work. Even Falco, the quintessential tough guy of the group, was knowledgeable enough to note that his reptilian ally was a whiny little twerp.

“Why do we have to go all of the way to Venom?” Slippy sniffled whilst throwing his arms up into the air in a mini-tantrum, “can’t we just fight them back from Corneria?”

“It’s about more than that, Slippy,” Fox replied, a determined look in his eyes, “he can always come back. I don’t want to let my father down by just doing what’s easy.”

“Fox is right,” Peppy agreed, “if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly. That’s what James always said.”

Falco groaned internally. While he’d heard all of the stories of James McCloud- decorated war hero, star pilot, Corneria’s protector, and so on- he was getting sick of it. Between Fox and Peppy, he felt as though he’d known the older fox his entire life, even though they’d never met. With all due respect to his best friend, he needed to move on.

“But—“ Slippy began, only to be cut off by the team leader.

“No buts,” Fox stated firmly, “besides, there’s no better time than now to strike. The best defence is a good offence, right?”

“Right!” Peppy yelled enthusiastically.

“Just think of it as a little trip...”

Several little trips later, he was one of the biggest heroes in the Lylat System, and not only that, but he was representing them in some strange new tournament. As his medieval opponent leapt off a platform above, he rolled aside, firing several shots from his blaster to discourage his foe. The stocky man kept coming, ramming forward with his shoulder locked in position. Falco jumped back, but not enough; the man’s momentum was enough to drive a powerful attack into the avian’s chest. He fell to the ground, gasping, before rolling aside to narrowly dodge a powerful punch that impacted on the earth where his head had lay not a second ago.

“Whoa,” he mused, “this is getting serious.”

Falco got to his feet, pointing at his rival.

“Aren’t you supposed to be King of Evil or something? Ha! My grandma hits harder!”

The evil man snarled, launching forward with his foot outstretched and dark flames enveloping his chunky frame. Falco leapt above the sudden strike, just enough to lay one strong kick to the forehead of his foe. The King of Evil’s own momentum spun him backwards, but before he could so much as right himself, the blue bird was already below him, following up with a powerful roundhouse kick which sent his opponent into the distance with a billowing trail of smoke.

“Don’t try me,” he snickered.

A hard-sounding thump indicated his enemy had landed, and a quick glance showed he had righted himself. Clenched fists showed Ganondorf was ready for one last attack. This suited Falco just fine.

“You want me, Ganondork? Come and get me!”

Both combatants started sprinting at each other, their weary bodies both beaten but pumping with adrenaline. Falco’s nimble frame allowed him to cover more ground; Ganondorf was simply too chunky. The pilot drew back one feathery fist, and...

...found himself flipping through the air, as the world was seemingly rent apart all at once. It instantly ended; he lay flat on the ground, unable to do a thing as Ganondorf’s powerful Warlock Punch sent the avian pilot over the edge of the arena and out of sight, with only one bitter thought to accompany him:

God[darn] tripping.
If my son could decimate Lego cities with his genitals, I'd be [darn] proud.


  • Tortuga
« Reply #1 on: July 08, 2009, 09:41:59 PM »

Well-written and funny, and it easily switches from heartfelt flashback to comic relief without missing a beat.  Thanks to tripping, tiers are once again for queers.
"It'll say life is sacred and so is death
but death is life and so we move on"

« Reply #2 on: July 09, 2009, 07:17:15 PM »
Thanks, I haven't been beaten too badly by tripping yet but it's only a matter of time...
If my son could decimate Lego cities with his genitals, I'd be [darn] proud.