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Blue

If someone where to ask me why I loved the color blue so much, why I held such an inexplicable fondness for what was for all intents and purposes the reflection of light particles from the cones and rods within my eyes, I would have no logical answer for them. Logic often did not dictate the idle whims of most individuals, human or otherwise.

Often times my friends would question my fondness for that color, to the sapphire hued clothes and personal items of my youth, to the azure camo pattern decorating the arms and armor of my army days, what even now seems like a lifetime ago.

To this day, after so many years, I still have no explanation to give, despite that there was no one left in my life to answer.

There was just something about it, something… pure... innocent. Softer than the angry heat of red, and mellower than the bright and cheery flares of yellow and green, blue was subtle, powerfully so, something that could stand proudly on its own, yet at its heart, was more delicate then a budding flower.

Most things of beauty and wonder in life were of that color, whether it be the crystalline exquisiteness of jeweled sapphire, the expansive and breathtaking nature of an unclouded sky, or the soft blueberry hue of my mother's eyes, the color blue always seemed to be at the heart of that which I loved.

Yet these wondrous things remained unattainable, something I could never hope to afford, the skies of above my current residence were more an ashen grey, and my mother was long gone from this world, interred alongside the rest of my kin within the sacred church grounds of my distant homeworld.

After it all, the war and the near crippling injuries that saw me discharged from the service and only other family I had ever known, I still do not understand why I had bothered to head out amidst the stars, what it was that had initially driven me to abandon not only the town I found so familiar, but the very world I had spent my younger years upon.

And as I often look upon the well maintained but nonetheless crowded jumble of interlocked rooms I had rented out in the undeniable hustle and bustle that can be found at the outskirts of a large city, a small, lonely space that had only ever been home to one soul since I took the lease, I wonder…

Had it all been worth it.

My mother had withered and sickened while her only son fought a war in the name of another species, far across the galaxy. The day I nearly died on the surface of a toxic world, fighting the legions of a mad dictator, was the same I learned that she had passed away, peacefully, and in her sleep. The seemingly condescending and snobbish e-mail I fond amidst the clutter of spam and intergalactic princes that only needed a paltry loan of several thousand credits to reclaim their empire, had almost gone unnoticed if not for the unmistakable e-stamp of Pineridge Sanatorium.

After that… well I was lost for a while. Honorably discharged from the defense force after my “heroic actions on behalf of the cornerian army" I soon found that had nowhere to go. The family home that had seen generations of my line bedded and cared for, had been portioned of and sold to the highest bidder to cover the exorbitant medical fees my sick mother had incurred, and funerary taxes imposed after her… departure.

So I had found myself, with no home and stranded halfway across the galaxy with no friends and no prospects, unable to even afford the means to head back to Earth and attend my mother's funeral.

A small gift of credits, not even from the army I had fought and bled for, but from the gratitude of a Cornerian General I had only briefly known during any even briefer stint in a CDF Fighter group, was enough for me to make it to the capital of their sovereignty and work towards getting back on my feet.

And here is where I found myself, working small time jobs just to make ends meets, hoping that one day I'd accumulate enough wealth to visit my mother's grave.

Even now as I ponder this as I often do while bored, tirelessly piecing together an antique rifle to sell to a rather eager client, I must admit that this all sounds rather dour and morose. There were of course pleasant times. I had made friends amongst the strange soldiers of this even stranger alien star system, a few prospective relationships every now that didn't quite seem to go anywhere, and a somewhat quiet and content life I had carved for myself after the war.

It was still a great deal more than some of the other soldiers could have hoped for. Those of my pals I didn't grow distant from were not lucky enough to have the opportunity.

But as they say, life goes on.

Back before my mother's mental health began its steady decline, she impressed upon me the need to carry on, to never give up, said it was a trait she learned from my father, a man I never had the chance to meet, killed in a war not entirely unlike that of the one his son fought in.

So where others might have given up, I pressed on, found a source of modest income and didn't allow the past to weigh me down. And in that, I know I made my mother proud.

Just as I finished reassembling the ancient, but well cared for rifle of human design, I heard the rather upbeat jingle of my doorbell. The relieved sigh I let slip was allowed only by the rather close nature of my finished work. The weapon was fairly old, a relic of a bygone age of war back home, and I had worked against the clock for the past few days to finish restoring it before the client arrived. The added stress of trying to keep what was my best client happy, made for a rather stressful work week. The guy came to me at the start of every month, almost on the dot, always dropping off a rusted, broken, wreck he wanted refurbished to fully working order.

He seemed kind of strange though, every weapon he brought in was of human craftsmanship and origin, usually from the early 2000's to 2050's AR's to M90 series rifles, he seemed to not only have an appreciation for human weapons, but specifically that of American lineage.

But I didn't question that too much. It was nice to work with something familiar. I was just happy that my stint in the military and partiality to armaments myself offered me a steady workflow.

Setting the weapon down with a sigh, I stood from my workbench, a satisfying ripple of cracking joints filling the air after a long day on the job as I moved towards the hall. Ignoring the slight hitch to my step, what was the symptom of creaky junctions in my legs, I crossed over half-finished rifles and scattered gun parts littered about my humble abode, zigging and zagging my way out of my work room to answer the door, somewhat surprised by the promptness of my client.

He was rarely, if ever, an early bird.

I chuckled at the thought.

Passing by my small library of fantasy and military history novels, I stepped into the small entrance hall and reached for the door handle, before forgetting myself with a slightly embarrassed chuckle.

Damn near everything on this planet was electronic.

That had taken some getting used to.

With a whimsical shake of my head I keyed the small panel that rested about chest height with me and watched as the thin cut out of steel disappeared up into the sealing with a low gust of dispelled air.

I readied to greet my guest but stopped the usual introduction I had nearly rehearsed with my client as I realized that the wrong person stood before me. I only hesitated a brief moment at the unexpected surprise before speaking.

“Afternoon, how can I help you?" I asked, gazing upon the animalian nature of my unexpected visitant.

Standing tall for a cornerian, yet still only coming to the middle cut of my chest just below my shoulders, the bright orange vulpine standing before me was not someone I had seen before. However, the piercing emerald eyes and cream furred fan running down the crest of his head, including the pale cream jacket and dark green outfit, it all stroked me as familiar in a way, though I could not place from where or why.

“Are you Alphonse wolfe, the antique weapon restorer?" The fox's voice was startlingly unique, its pitch lost somewhere between a light tenor and gentle baritone. And though the manner he addressed me with was entirely neutral, he managed somehow to come off as warm or undeniably approachable, as if he was inquiring to an old friend.

Confused and somewhat off put, I could only answer with a hesitant nod of my head.

Instantly, the vulpine's muzzle split into a grin that was both parts relieved and excitable. “Oh thank the sprites!" He exclaimed with a hearty chuckle as he shoved a paw into his jacket and ruffled out a small piece of paper daubed with hastily scribbled ink. “I've been scouring this apartment complex for the last half hour. That dumb bird wrote down the fracking wrong address." He muttered to himself sourly as he crumpled up what must have been a sheet of useless directions.

I was unsure what to make of this strange visitor, though with little deduction I had engendered a theory that he must somehow be connected with my client. Or so at least I hoped as I would not know what to do otherwise. Still rather uncertain, I decided to wait and let him pick up the lost momentum.

Thankfully, the fox seemed to pick up on this as he jammed the disheveled and balled up wad into his pants pocket, returning his focus towards the doorway. “Ah yes… I should probably explain myself. I'm here to pick up my friend's order. I'm sure you know who I'm talking about, loud, obnoxious, entirely in love with the sound of his own voice…" The cornerian trailed off with a somewhat unabashed smirk.

I found my lips curling into a mirroring replica of their own doing at the pointedly accurate description. As an individual hired by the avian, I had nothing to say about his person. As a man, I considered his mannerism somewhat... self-infatuating.

“I think I know who that is." I answered somewhat diplomatically, though the fairly conspiratorial grin we shared was enough to address the unspoken sentiment.

The vulpine's smile lessened, albeit fractionally, as he seemed to adhere to some form of seriousness. “So, is the order finished?"

I nodded. “Just finished before you nocked on the door, I'll have it wiped down and in a case momentarily." The price for my work had already been paid for in advance. All there was really left to complete the transaction, was to hand it over. That's what I would have usually done, yet a small part of me was disinclined with the notion of leaving this pleasantly seeming individual to wait outside for me to finish up. Perhaps it was the fact that I did not often receive any callers, especially none that appeared so cordial, that I broke away from my usual reclusion as I opened the door a fraction in invitation.

“If you would like you can come inside while I get it ready? It'll be a few minutes more and I would think you'd like to step out of the heat." The day was a hot one, nearing the triple digits from what the weather analysts forewarned, what was turning out to be the hottest summer in the past fifty or so years. To a human like myself, that was uncomfortable, but entirely manageable. To these cornerians, I gathered it must be near unbearable.

There was little hesitation in the vulpine as he nodded in eager gratitude, the action making the previously unnoticed dark tinge of sweat on his fur more prevalent as he moved to step inside. “Thanks dude, you wouldn't know what it's like to be under this heat with a coat of fur." The fox exclaimed jokingly as I moved aside to let him into the modest foyer of my small dwelling.

It was a short trip to lead the cornerian past the hall and into the kitchen, the sounds of our footsteps pattering loudly against the faded linoleum. Popping open the fridge, I reached inside and pulled out a bottled water, tossing the plastic jug into the outstretched arms of my guest who uttered a quick, but hearty declaration of gratitude as he continued to follow me into the living room.

“Feel free to rest up on the couch, I'll be out in just a second with the order." I gestured to the worn down sofa and the vulpine quickly made himself at home as he flopped down hard on the cushions with a relieved sigh.

For a brief moment, the sight of my unfamiliar guest lounging on my couch reminded myself how out of character this all felt. This fox was very well the first person I had let in since I rented the place out. Yet this all felt so normal… casual, less like a business transaction and more like a friend coming over for a beer.

It made me curious as to my visitor's identity. For some reason, he looked familiar, though I know I had never met this vulpine before in my life, his unique voice and amicable bearing was inviting, prompting a cavalier, laid back attitude I had not felt since my first few months in the service.

Though as interested as I was, I pushed it all down in favor of completing my job. Friendly stranger or not, I still had to get this sorted out.

Sliding into the backroom, I spent a few minutes worrying over the finished product to ensure there would be no imperfections. After all I did enjoy a passably noteworthy reputation for my reliable services, and the thought of a bad remark was both shameful to my craft and besmirchment against my personal repute.

Once I was satisfied that it would pass through any inspection with flying colors, I carefully disassembled it into its most prominent components and slipped it into the foam lined case I had custom ordered for the decidedly unique weapon. Then inserting that casing into a duffle bag, I returned to the living room to finish conducting the transaction.

My guest as it was, had kept himself occupied with my television, having found the remote from its previously lost position somewhere in the depths of my couches' cushions. As I set the bag on my coffee table, my eyes, like those of my guest, were drawn to the sights and sounds currently displayed upon the Ultra 8K forty inch screen tucked into the recess of the far living room wall.

So it was today then. I mused with a disinterested sigh, the Lylat systems anthem filling my quiet home with a soft and gentle tune as the newscaster's blathered insistently under the not so subtle overtones of blatant patriotism.

“Today marks the fourth anniversary of the unconditional surrender and defeat of the Venomian Empire, the system spanning conflict that some people once thought might never end. General Pepper is scheduled to make a guest appearance later today in front of the capital building with a system wide address in commemoration of the war that took millions of lives. And though the festive mood is high and spirits are soaring, some doubts still linger over the CDF's treatment of auxiliary forces used in the…."

I tuned out the rest of the program as I lowered myself onto the couch with a sigh, my thoughts wandering in puzzlement and slight confusion, the rest of my immediate concerns temporarily pushed away.

Had it really been four years already?

That honestly caught me by surprise. To think it had been 1,460 days since I last felt any real sense of purpose or drive. Back in the CDF, I had felt as if I had been doing something worthwhile, something meaningful, at least for a while, back before I became disillusioned with it all.

This job kept me afloat, but I wouldn't really call it fulfilling. It mainly just passed the time, allowed me to convince myself that I had a chance to make my promise true to see home again. Though a small part of me realized the likelihood was damn near impossible. I could never hope to afford the expanses necessary to make it back, not like that stopped me from trying.

Somehow, I would go back home.

I'd find a way, no matter how long it took.

“Fought in the war did ya?"

The unanticipated voice intruding upon my reverie, sharply brought reality back into focus as I remembered that I was not alone in my home as I usually was. I turned to my guest with what must have been an expression somewhere between confusion and surprise.

There was nothing inside my home that would indicate I had taken part in the conflict. Unlike most veterans, I did not see fit to bedeck my abode with nationalistic paraphernalia, although if that was partly in lieu of the fact that Corneria was not my true allegiance, or that my time in the army had soured near the end, was something I had not bothered to consider for some years.

As if to answer the unspoken question as to how he figured this out, the vulpine only offered a grin that was arguably more belated and careworn than that of the standard fair of which I had rapidly acclimatized to.

“Your eyes, I saw that same glint in my father's, whenever he had the time to head back home anyways. Strange really, I've seen it in most soldiers I've met."

Seeing as he had guessed correct and I felt no real inclination to lie, I nodded my assertion to his inquiry. “Four years, three in the infantry and one in the fighter core."

This seemed to bring a marginally impressed air to the vulpine as he regarded me with what was perhaps a higher degree of interest. “You were a joystick jockey?"

“Originally it had been a clerical error in army records, jumble a couple letters in my name and toss out a few more, and I was Alonso Wolf. Before I knew it I had been placed in flight school and shipped off with the fleet for the battle over Eladard. After I somehow managed to survive that clusterfuck of a naval battle, someone in command thought it wise to keep me around for a little while longer." I paused for a moment as memories resurfaced. And though it looked like my visitor was waiting for me to finish, he was kind enough to let me reminisce.

My memory of that particular fleet action was not a fond one. Moments after they exited FTL, the Venomians had been right on them. Despite that they had been beaten back and the manufactory planet was retaken, the 8th fleet had endured heavy casualties. Near every friend I had made in the fighter core had been killed in that battle. It was a wonder that I had managed to survive. It was that kind of luck that kept me alive after I returned to ground operations for the concluding months of the war, culminating in the injuries that led to my “honorable" discharge.

The bitter recollection of my exoneration from active duty was more than enough to bring me back to the present. “Eventually I was moved back to grunt work for the last leg of the war." I concluded with a sigh, wishing that I had something a little stronger than beer in my fridge.

The vulpine only nodded at that, seeming somewhat contemplative as he sipped at his water. I watched him drink, a strange habit I had picked up in the first few month of my life on this planet. It was strange to watch these cornerians. They looked human enough and it was sometimes easy to forget even the blatant variances after living amongst them for so long. But every once in a while it just really hit home that they were utterly alien. Even the way they drank and ate was different than me.

Unable to form a closed seal around the lip bottles with a narrowly tapered muzzle, the vulpine as most of the other species in this system, was forced to lean his heads back and pour the liquid into his mouths, the water trickling into his waiting maw.

With a cough, I remembered that it was considered a social faux paus to stare blatantly at another person and I made myself busy with the wall until he was finished, what was signaled by a rather content exhalation as the vulpine leaned even further into the overly stuffed cushions.

Shaking the now empty bottle, he offered one more inclination of gratitude as he crumpled up the cheap plastic and tossed it into the small garbage bin sitting in the crook of the corner beside the couch.

As he made himself busy I grabbed the case and slid it over to him. While it was nice to have a guest, I had no desire to keep him longer than need be. I was certain he had more important things to do then chat the day away with a cloistered solitarian like myself.

“Thanks for the rest spot my friend." He smiled widely at me as he removed himself from the sofa and slung the bag onto his shoulder.

Standing to walk him out, I responded with the usual platitude as we approached the door. Opening it for him, I watched the vulpine step out into the heat once more, direct sunlight already forcing a weary sigh from his lips as he turned back to face me.

“It was a pleasure to meet you Alphonse."

“Likewise…" I paused, realizing that I had never bothered to even ask for the name of my guest. Thankfully, he was quick to fix that oversight with a chuckle.

“Name's Fox…. And yeah I know, I've heard it all."

Though it was tempting to make a joke, I refrained as I simply shared a laugh with him. He was a rather interesting character, though I hardly knew anything about him, seemed like the kind of guy I might have made friends with back in the army.

I spent a few more moments tidying up the usual departing graces and airs before watching him walk down the hall and disappear around the corner, a small smile still lingering on my face as I closed the door.

Speaking with Fox had reminded me of the pleasantries of social interaction, something I had actively abstained from for quite a while. Leaving the entry hall with that thought, I slipped into the kitchen and busied myself with making lunch before I headed off back to work. There was one other project I had on the backburner that I intended to finish so I could have time off for the weekend. It was hard to believe that today was Friday, though honestly perhaps not all that surprising. As I scarcely ever bothered to go out, the weekends were hardly anything special to me.

All the same, there was a book I was close to finishing, and I fully intended to.