[ACTION/TEXT] blah blah blah

[raced_god]

He often wondered how he survived with so little sleep.

Insomnia was a tragic truth not only of his career, but also of his existence in general. Sleep was fitful, brief, and plagued by the looming shadow of recurring nightmares, memories of past happenings that never quite went away. He swore he could count years in the dark circles under his eyes, like rings in a cross-section of a tree. There was no reason for his trouble because sensible people took pills for this kind of thing. It was 2572, after all, and he was a walking reminder of the miracles of science and stasis tanks and bottled cures, stiff white scars hiding metal plates and bolts, cybernetics and stainless steel, better and more long-lived than anything nature could ever hope to build.

Of course, the little miracle pills came with warnings of dependancy and caveats to avoid cars and alcohol and heavy machinery, so he generally didn't bother, accepting crummy sleeping habits and eventually adjusting to them. He could go all day on five sporadic hours, sometimes less.

It wasn't like he didn't try to sleep. He liked sleep! Sleep was totally great, when he got it. But tonight was not going to be one of those nights.

He gave up around one in the morning, sliding quietly out of bed and down the fire pole to the garage. At night, the open, high-ceilinged workshop was cold and empty, and he illuminated it not with the overhead fluorescents, but with his laptop screen, casting a blue glow across the concrete. Obviously the cure for insomnia was to dick around on the internet, except he couldn't figure out what to do there, either. His eyes moved from the computer to the workbench, to the piles of unfinished projects, to the gunship, and back again. Falcon bit his lip and pulled open a Galactic Federation search engine.

Perhaps the reason why he was finding it so difficult to find sleep (besides the obvious birthday woes) was because his mind kept wandering back to that strange week in March, that dream-that-wasn't-a-dream.

His hands hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for a moment before typing.

IAN MALKOVICH

The results were about what he expected. The idiot had gotten himself blown to space dust before he amounted to much, so most of the hits linked to the same official Federation obituary. Even then, there wasn't a whole lot. His picture. A description of the incident, which Falcon instantly recognized to be carefully edited, making everyone involved sound as heroic as possible, embellished to a degree that left a saccharine taste in his mouth, unpleasant and cloying.

The obituary went on to describe how, thanks to Ian's sacrifice, three hundred civilians were saved.

The Captain, however, knew how to see past the blatant Federation sugar-coating. This wasn't some great heroic escapade. It was a routine mission gone tragically wrong, resulting in the freak death of an eighteen-year-old kid, the whole shebang made stickier by the fact that the commanding officer of the mission was a sibling of the deceased. Ian fucked up the drive unit repair and probably spent his last moments in complete panic as he watched his brother's ship disengage.

It was the impossible choice: save your family and let three hundred people die, or save the civilians and know that your sibling's final seconds were more than likely wasted wondering why you were leaving him to bite it. It wasn't heroic. It was deciding which flavor of guilt was easier to live with. Three hundred strangers or your kid brother. You have ten seconds to choose whose blood is on your hands for the rest of your life.

Falcon begrudgingly admitted to himself that he would have done the exact same thing. He wouldn't have understood it at eighteen, but he certainly understood now. If anyone had gone after Ian, they would have died too. Minimize loss--death was a statistic, and the lower the number, the better. Choosing one life over three hundred would be an unforgivable lapse in judgment and probably result in demotion or reassignment at best, a dishonorable discharge at worst. It unsettled him how, so many years later, he could still effortlessly think like a Fed. His thoughts returned to March, this time focusing on what Uxie told him.

Not shouldn't exist. Could have existed. He'd been a really good Fed, despite his general aversion to authority and military structure and rampant hypocrisy. But if he'd made one different choice, he would have excelled beyond even his own expectations.

It occurred to him then that even with Samus' scattered mentions of her commanding officer, Falcon had never actually done any research into him. He knew Adam Malkovich was long dead, but not the how, and beyond that, he knew nothing about the guy, not even what he looked like.

An initial search led him to more obituaries, more carefully constructed summaries, paraphrased incidents. Falcon saw right through the recounting of the adventures of the 07th Platoon. The other members were glossed over (as this was Adam's official obituary after all), and Falcon noted the one survivor, filing away the name "Anthony Higgs" for later inquiry.

The cause of death was painfully vague. "Commander Adam Malkovich, killed in action serving the Galactic Federation". Well, no shit. Apparently, his doomed platoon had been answering a distress call when everything went to hell, seemingly by complete accident. How very upstanding of them. The rest of the obituary was a lengthy, eulogistic retrospective of his illustrious military career. There was no mention of Samus Aran.

Obviously the Federation was trying to cover something up. He had no idea what.

Back button. Next link. Another vague article about the incident, this time with a picture.

Falcon surprised himself by how hard he hit the back of his chair. "...Shit."

He sat there for a few moments, brow furrowed. They certainly weren't twins by any stretch of the imagination, but he could not deny a resemblance--one that, however slight, was still too strong given the times Samus had directly compared him (sometimes drunkenly, sometimes not) to her former CO. Dark hair that didn't quite comb back all the way. Sharp, angular features. An intense stare framed by stern eyebrows and the telltale dark circles that came with high-stress jobs. Fresh from a dream-that-wasn't-a-dream where he'd been a perfect, shining example of a Federation officer, any resemblance at all, however minute, was too close for comfort. Did Samus see it? Every time she looked at him, did she...?.

Misplaced insecurities. Almost two years ago, alone at night and drowning in a tumultuous mess of thoughts, all of them revolving around his relationship with Samus, he convinced himself he was a proxy for Snake, then spent almost as much time assuring himself otherwise. She assured him otherwise. Not for Snake, no.

In a place between places where the dead sometimes didn't stay dead...

His hands found his scalp and pulled his hair back, as if trying to recreate how he'd worn it as a colonel. The stubborn bang that could never seem to cohere with the rest of his hair flopped forward, finally able to do so after a year of slowly but surely recovering from an April Fool's prank.

Not for long, he decided, shutting his laptop without bothering to close the browsers (something he would probably regret later) and finding his way to the bathroom. He kept an electric trimmer under the sink.

It was two in the morning. He had been forty years old for one-hundred-and-twenty minutes and he was standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, buzzing off his hair, reeking of mid-life crisis. Then again, he was fairly certain he had one of those every five years (give or take), so this was not a terribly world-shattering occurrence. In fact, Falcon often thought his life was punctuated by a string of crises, and he was just connecting the dots from one to the other.

Worried that his spontaneous head-shaving may have woken Samus, he stole back downstairs to the workshop and hopped on his motorcycle, booting up the G-Diffuser, zipping out the garage door and shutting it behind him. The roads were empty and the air rushing past his face was the nighttime chill of early spring, stinging his eyes, feeling unfamiliar and cold against his fresh haircut. Somehow, he knew just where he wanted to go.

When Falcon first arrived in Final Destination almost seven years ago, he was surprised at how much nature was intact. A full, lush forest and a pristine lake right behind campus was something of a shock for someone only ever accustomed to sad, frail urban trees lining the roads in some of the nicer sections of town (not where he grew up, of course not). The beaches, too, were a surprise. In overpopulated, polluted 2572, green that hadn't already been consumed by concrete and steel was sectioned off, controlled and preserved behind figurative glass walls in a futile effort to save it. You wanted actual trees and blue sky and water that hadn't been recycled a hundred times over, you went off-world. Or...five hundred years in the past to a place between places, apparently.

The world is shit, he thought. It's always been shit and it won't ever stop being shit. Maybe that's why he liked this beach so much. Even during the day, it wasn't packed with people and their noise and their garbage. The sand was clean and free of dark oily streaks, a rocky jetty catching dark waves. At night, you could see stars.

The bike hissed as it landed, and Falcon pulled off his shoes and socks, rolling the cuffs of his jeans a few times before putting his bare feet in the sand. Deciding it wasn't enough, he shuffled further down the shoreline, sat, and flopped backwards onto the damp ground.

Three years ago he'd sat in the Blue Falcon with Jeff Andonuts and talked mortality. Talked about how he couldn't see himself making it past fifty while the student puked his guts out in the back seat and, eventually, on the side of the road. Talked about how he couldn't see himself in ten years--people in his profession just did not live that long (if he wanted to get really technical, Falcon would admit it was a miracle he survived past thirty-five; and in fact, he almost didn't).

Three and a half of those ten years had passed since that heated conversation. Jeff had left the school and gone somewhere with his real father, something Falcon should have expected. He was not cut out for that sort of thing. Not for Ionia, and certainly not for someone like Jeff who already had a father, however absent.

He had been forty years old for three hours. There, lying on his back in the sand, listening to the waves ebb in and out, he could chart where he'd been but not where he was going, not very well. Quit teaching, sure. Quit racing? Retire. Unmask himself and put and end to the mystery. Get the jump on the inevitable. Falcon wasn't young anymore and he would only get older. How long before he lost his sharpness and speed, his lighting-quick reflexes and memory of each hairpin turn, each jump, burned into every muscle? How long until a freakishly talented twenty-something showed up out of nowhere and dominated--just like he had? Even bounty hunting: the game was always changing, threatening to outrun even those who raced at the speed of sound, crossed galaxies at the speed of light. Already he anticipated the night he would find himself in a shady bar, nursing a drink and listening for a name that had faded from the limelight and wouldn't be spoken.

And then, where would he go?

Ionia would grow up and he was already missing it. Hell, she didn't need him, wherever she was out there in the unending black of space, learning about life from experience--a much more qualified teacher than he'd ever hoped to be. Jeff would follow in the footsteps of Dr. Andonuts, his real father. There were no second chances, not for him. With Samus, with phazon, there would be no chance at all.

He was not the kind of person to go out quietly, he knew that much. People were going to remember him; he'd make sure of it. But what came after the explosive finale?

Assuming he lived through the explosive finale.

Do something else, if he could stand it. Ask Samus to come along because if he had to get old, he wasn't going to do it alone. Take her off on some other grand adventure. Pick up his real name where he left it and carry on; leave Captain Falcon to the history books where legends belonged and be a real person.

When an orange glow emerged from the horizon, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and rode the bike back home. Samus wouldn't be awake for another few hours. Sundays were reserved for sleeping late. Despite being up all night (with the exception of an hour or two he drifted off on the beach), he didn't feel tired in the least, so he opted for a shower before standing over the bed and deciding whether or not he was going to bother getting back in it.

He'd been forty years old for seven hours. In some ways, he was more sure of things now. In others, he was just as uncertain about the future as he was three years ago. He could not deny, however, that it was sort of amazing how pieces could fall into place once someone else was involved. The knowledge of being with someone made things clearer, allowed him to speculate those five, ten years in the future. Even if he didn't know where he would be, or what he'd be doing, he could think about who he'd be with.

Maybe that was enough.
-----------
[HEY EVERYONE IN PHYSICS CLASS. You all had an extra homework packet e-mailed to you last night, with instructions to complete it by next class. Goose got one too, and the e-mail also says everyone is getting extra physics homework because of him. King Boo gets triple physics homework whether he is in the class or not. HAPPY BIRTHDAYS except it's not your birthday, it's his, and instead of presents everyone gets extra physics homework.

The Captain himself is doing what he usually does on nice Sunday afternoons, which is turning the parking lot into his own personal autoshop. Today he is working on that black motorcycle APPROACH IF YOU DARE.]

I'm just going to take a second to remind everyone that the school's network chat is for homework questions and general concerns. Not for harassing fellow students or airing your personal fetishes.

I mean come on. Nobody wants to hear that.

I'll be out in the parking lot if anyone needs me.

Comments

[miss-dreavus.livejournal.com]

Just what went on in that chat? By the time I remembered just how to get in everybody was leaving in disgust.

[raced_god]

you are dead this is so awkward

Oh, uh. Just some TMI. More than I ever needed to know about some people.

[miss-dreavus.livejournal.com]

I am the ghost of a one night stand ooOOoooOOo

I see. Isn't that chat supposed to be for homework purposes?

[raced_god]

It's supposed to be. I think people just use it more for idle conversation.

[ACTION]

[ihaswillpower.livejournal.com]

[The only reason Azelf bothered to stay in the school because his family, with the exception of Palkia, are no longer home. He can understand Uxie's reasoning of being in Smash Academy, but he had yet asked the others why. Why not return to Sinnoh and leave this dump behind? There's nothing so special about a school that teaches things you'll likely forget an hour later. But at the same time, the citizens of FDC, as well as the students and faculty, needed willpower, something he can easily give without question. That's likely another reason why he's sticking around. Because he's needed and that's a need he can't live without.

Floating around outside the school building, the Pixie takes a look at his surroundings. Trees, grass, flowers, and berries are seen, as well as a few movable things that humans tend to ride on a daily basis. And amongst all of that is a man working on a movable thing. Who is he and what is he doing?

Azelf wanted to know, but this fear of his is acting up again. Sure, it's easy to be bold and daring on the network. But when it comes to doing so in person, it's a lot harder than originally thought. Mainly cause these people have the opportunity to harm him, which leaves the Pixie second-guessing about the upcoming Pokemon battle with Amp. But he's not going to let that get in the way, not when there's determination in action right on the parking lot. It's enough to force Azelf to swallow his fears and fly over to the man to watch him do... stuff.]

~ You looked determined... I like that! ~

[raced_god]

[Falcon had long since resigned himself to the fact that if he set himself up in the parking lot, he was sure to be bothered. This time, however, it was from a student--a presumed student, anyway, as the botherer in question appeared to be a Pokemon--that he didn't recognize.

Also, the talking in his head was more than enough to set him on guard. Telepathy was just weird, man.

He looks up, and raises an eyebrow.]

Uh. Sure. You are?

[ihaswillpower.livejournal.com]

[You best get to used to it, since this is the only way for him to communicate with others when not on the network.]

~ I'm Azelf, the Being of Willpower! And don't you forget it! ~

[He says this while pointing to himself with a smirk on his face, giving off some sort of vibe that says he's proud to be what he is. Who wouldn't be?]

[raced_god]

[Pokemon sure are weird. First Knowledge, now Willpower. Oh no is this another one of Bob's. He sets down his wrench.]

Right. New student?

[badasscopters.livejournal.com]

Aw, come on.

I could've been more descriptive, if you would've liked that more.

[raced_god]

No, no. That's okay.

Think of the children.

[badasscopters.livejournal.com]

Well, hey, there ain't children here anymore, so I'll just satisfy everything.

'Cause, you know, like you wanna know my dick size and everything.

By the way, it's six inches.

[Goose you douche, stop that.]

[tank-rockarms.livejournal.com]

How do I open this thing you sent me in the email?

[raced_god]

It's an attachment. Right click and "Save As".

[tank-rockarms.livejournal.com]

Okay, now what?

WALL O TEXT ACTIVATE also this is gay

[icequeen-aran.livejournal.com]

Samus was a light sleeper, and Falcon did not suffer with bouts of insomnia alone. She knew both him and her handled their sleepless nights differently, and generally there was little to nothing the other could do to alleviate it. You couldn't sleep, you made use of you energy; you worked on something, drove somewhere, dicked around on the internet until your brain and body decided to miraculously cooperate and allow for sleep again. That was usual.

The buzz of a shaver was slightly unusual. "Falcon... come back to bed." She mumbled, uncertain if he heard and certain he would not listen if he had. The sound of the shaver stopping and the bike engine starting only solidified that, and soon it had left the garage of the firehouse and into the distance.

Samus knew he would come back, and that she should go back to sleep and wait for him... but found herself unable to do so. The bed smelled like him but there was not a warm body there to hold. Samus glanced at the red numbers of the digital clock on the dresser. They told her Falcon had been forty years old for roughly two hours. Samus found herself unable to go back to sleep, so she followed in his footsteps. First, the bathroom. She had to pee.

The evidence of his insomnia was abundant—clusters of brown hair haphazardly shaved off and all over the sink and the tile floor. Okay. He shaved his head. That was... strange but Samus could certainly live with it, as she had this time last year. Samus cleaned it up and wandered into the kitchen, finding nothing appetizing to drink or eat. Down the fire pole she went, tempted to go run some frivolous diagnostics in the gunship to try and pass the time. Her bare feet hit the cold concrete, and the entire garage was illuminated by a tiny blue light. Like a moth to a tiny, blue flame, it was inevitable where her feet took her next. His laptop. He left it on. Her fingers were already ghosting over the machine and carefully opening it before her shoulder conscious was whispering, you probably shouldn't do that.

The search reports and windows were still open and now in plain view. "...Adam." Suddenly the hair in the sink made much more sense. Suddenly taking off on his bike made much more sense, general birthday/life brooding aside... Falcon had never seen a picture of Adam, and Samus had been reluctant to show him any for this very reason, or willingly bring the subject up for that matter. How often did he compare himself to someone so important in her life and yet so very dead...? How often did she? How could this feel as much of an intrusion of her privacy and past as it did an open invitation? Samus closed the laptop lid and went back upstairs. She stopped by the refrigerator one last time and forced herself to down a cup (or two) of wine in hopes that it would help make sleep come a little easier.

No... not yet. Falcon was many things, and Adam he was not. He was a forty year old man and someone she had shared nearly three years of her life with, and in some of the most intimate ways imaginable—hopefully for many more. Falcon's last birthday was pretty horrible and it was largely her fault. She would shoot herself if she didn't do something to try and make up for that this year, not that she hadn't already been working on something for the past week or so in secret. So for now, it was the return of the gay post-it notes; Samus knew Falcon would return and go to himself breakfast at some point... it was a matter of choosing whether to plant her note on the cereal box, or the box of waffle mix. In the end, she settled on the waffle mix.

"April showers bring May flowers
I have seen rain before too
But if Sunday morning lets the sun in
I'll be waiting for you"

Perhaps it was not the most coherent or beautiful or articulate thing at this early in the am, not with two glasses of wine simmering in the back of her head and urging her to crawl back into bed, but it was incredibly gay it was HIS BIRTHDAY and it was HIS SPECIAL DAY and she wanted to try and make it SPECIAL and so Samus felt satisfied this was at least one small victory for post-it kind in achieving this. At least until she woke up again.

shut up I will punch you.

[raced_god]

And indeed, the cat Falcon came back, at the bright and early hour of half-past six in the morning. The disturbance in the kitchen did not go unnoticed. Post-its were found when Falcon searched the fridge and the cupboards for something to eat, in the event it would help him get back to sleep. Breakfast would have to wait, however, until he was less sandy and gross.

So he took the aforementioned shower and pulled on clean boxers, taking note of the fact that Samus had apparently cleaned up the bathroom while he was gone. The words on the post-its stuck in his mind and convinced him to give sleep one more shot--maybe it would be easier now that he'd exhausted himself. And maybe it would be easier because Samus was still in bed.

Quietly, so as not to wake her (he was sort of feeling guilty that his spontaneous haircut apparently took care of that already), he slid under the covers next to her, arms snaking around her waist.

[icequeen-aran.livejournal.com]

If not the buzzing shaver than the sound of a motorcycle engine starting would have certainly woken her. But for now, Samus was woken by not the sounds of a machine but something more natural and gentle. She rolled over until she was facing him, nearly nose-to-nose.

"Good morning." It was difficult not to smile knowing it didn't take more than one evening for him to return, and that he did come back in one piece. Her hands ran up and cupped his cheeks and then her eyes traveled upwards. "Fuzzhead." It was difficult to not want to touch said fuzzhead with the same kind of child-like curiosity she had one year ago. Last year his hair had been taken from him unwillingly, so there was less apprehension about it now that it had been his choice... even if made in some sort of brooding it-is-my-birthday-and-I-look-like-a-dead-guy-possibly decision.

[text]

[whitedeviljack.livejournal.com]

Can't we just ban the people who don't follow the rules in the chat?

Re: [text]

[raced_god]

RAIDEN WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME

Only administrator accounts can do that, I'm pretty sure.

Re: [text]

[whitedeviljack.livejournal.com]

BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO TELL ME HOW TO BAN YOU

Who's an admin?

Dana....

[time-mast3r.livejournal.com]

[What are you saying? You weren't even there. You don't have an opinion on the matter. :I]
Thank you.

Finally, someone gets it through their head. It is one thing to say that you hint that you have an acquired attraction for something, but really? That is extremely lewd and highly perverse.

Ugh, at least keep it to your own thoughts.

[raced_god]

Yeah, my thoughts exactly. [OH NO I'M AGREEING WITH BOBSPAWN.] Especially when you're in a public chatroom. It's unnecessary.

[vela_nova]

Harrassment? Personal fet--

What kind of place is this?!

[raced_god]

This place in general or the network chat?

[vela_nova]

Having not... experienced the network chat yet, I mean this place in general.