Mewfour
27th September 2003, 10:33 PM
$#%&*BROKEN GLASS*&%#$
Prologue: From the Desk of the F-Zero Comitte
Mutant City. With a population of over one million, it has become the largest megapolis in the world. There is never a dull moment in Mute City, as it is often called, abustle with all kinds of creatures, humans and aliens alike, milling about on the crowded streets day in and day out, as the holographic billoards and street signs flash in their faces twenty-four hours a day. It is a city full of life, and for that reason, it has become the most popular stop on the F-Zero Grand Prix.
F-Zero. The raceway to the future, some call it. Using machines with anti-magnetic field generators, these racing machines, weighing in at anywhere from 1,000 to 2,000 kilograms, zoom along the circut just inches above the track, suspended millions of meters above the planet's surface. Twists, loops, hairpin turns, and gaping leaps of faith make the F-Zero Grand Prix one of the most dangerous contests ever known to the universe, and also one of the most profitable. After surviving just one race, an F-Zero pilot can earn anywhere above twenty million space credits, and a few Grand Prixs later, may even have more money than the multi-quadrillionaire aristocrats who conceived and birthed the competition. It is a dangerous, vicious, exceedingly brutal, and often a high-speed mechanical bloodbath, and yet creatures from all over the universe gather and compete, and millions more come to watch, all for three simple reasons.
Money. More money. And glory.
These are the races of the F-Zero Grand Prix, pilots who risk thier lives all for money and power. Some call it selfish, others call it foolishly brave. And yet, millions others call it completely exhilerating.
Now, with the final track of the Grand Prix at Mute City ready to be torn apart by thirty different F-Zero machines, the anticipation risies.
-The F-Zero Comitte.
(Illegible signature)
Chapter I: The Cataclysm
Pico gripped the controls tightly, his heart racing and his eyes, a cold and sinister yellow, widened with fear. His palms, wrapped so tightly around his steering wheel, could have crushed diamonds as they grew clammy with sweat inside of his soft, velvet gloves. Mistake after careless mistake had cost him one Grand Prix too many for his liking, and he had a reputation to uphold. He was one of the oldest and most experienced drivers in the F-Zero races, and there he was, sitting at the bottom of the ranking, in last place, on the last track, on the last Grand Prix of the year. The thought of losing yet another Grand Prix irritiated him to to end, and the mere suggestion of losing it in dead last made his green, scaly skin nearly burn red with anger. He knew the Wild Goose, a machine which he built with his own two hands, was capable of great things, and Pico would not dare to settle it for last place. He was a notorious assassin, feared by thousands of worlds alike, and coming in at last place in every single circut in this Grand Prix would make him the laughing stock of the entire universe. I'll show them, Pico vowed to himself as the countdown to the final race began at an ominous three, I'll show them all.
Three. Pico started his engine.
Two. Pico activated the anti-magnet generator, lifting his machine into the air.
One. Pico clenched his teeth.
Half of a count. Pico's heart began to pound.
Zero. And Pico was quickly gone.
The roar of the machines were brutally overpowering. If one was not wearing thick earplugs near the spectator stands at the finish line, he would have gone stone-cold deaf in an instant. There they were, all thitry machines of all shapes and sizes, barreling down the track like there was no tomorrow for any of them, blazing along the circut at mind-boggling, thunderous speeds. Looking out of his rear-view mirror, Pico saw that, at long last, he was in first place, leading the pack by a mile. Quietly laughing to himself, Pico began to feel much better as he coasted around the first sharp corner of the track.
Just as Pico began to feel like nothing could ruin this run, another machine, coming from out of nowhere, pulled up alongside his right. Taking a quick glance over his shoulder, Pico saw the much smaller machine steadily beginning to pull ahead of him, and to Pico's disbelief, as they neared the end of the first lap, the small machine was already ahead of him.
Not willing to settle for second place, as soon as Pico crossed the finish line and began the second lap, he pressed the tiny red button on the center of his wheel, and with a spray of thunder and lightning from his boosters, Pico shot forward with dazzling speed, now neck-in-neck with the rival machine. Taking another quick glance at the machine whose pilot had dared to best him, Pico saw the familiar shape of the Twin Norrita, the lightest machine of them all, and the easiet target to crush. Before Pico could formulate a plan to run his rival off the road, another machine, a bright, shining blue, blasted ahead of him, bearing the name Blue Falcon on it's boosters.
Blue Falcon. The most famous machine of them all, piloted by the most famous pilot of them all, Captain Falcon. The mere thought of being beaten by the legendary Falcon yet again made Pico's blood boil, and by now, they had begun their final lap.
Now trailing in third place and threatening to be lost in fourth, Pico knew that if he were to win this Grand Prix at any respectable place, he would have to come in first on this circut. Pressing his boost button, Pico roared beside the Twin Norrita again, and with a vicious roar, Pico thrust the steering wheel to it's side, throwing the Wild Goose's armor-like body into the frail machine like a freight train into a glass window. The Norrita was sent smashing into the guard rail of the track as Pico blasted the Wild Goose faster and faster down the circut, landing on it's side and suddenly blazing alight with smoke and flames.
Now closing in ever so slowly on Falcon, Pico knew that the Wild Goose' engine could only take one more boost before it would become unstable, and taking the slightest scrape afterwards would lead him to the same fate as Gomar and Shioh, the pilots of the now destoyed Norrita. Taking his chances as the final finish line slowly approached in the distance, Pico boosted one last time as his enine sputtered smoke and sparks, threatening to explode at the slightest disturbance. Barreling past Falcon within just miles of the finish line, Pico took one last moment to look over his shoulder at the now trailing Blue Falcon and scream, "See ya' later, Falcon!"
Content with his taunting, Pico shifted his eyes back onto the track, a split-second too late. The tilted and inclined ramp that led to the finish had slipped Pico's mind completely, and Pico scrambled to control his wildly veering machine. He threw the wheel to the left, and then sharply to the right, sending his machine into a violent spin, speeding towards the barriers. Pico only had time to quickly brace himself before the Wild Goose violently smashed into the rails, and all turned to black.
Pico opened his eyes hours later, seeing the blurry face of the human, Robert Stuart, hovering over his own. Even though it seemed like hours, Pico could only keep his hazing, bloodshot eyes open for barely a second before blacking out once more.
Prologue: From the Desk of the F-Zero Comitte
Mutant City. With a population of over one million, it has become the largest megapolis in the world. There is never a dull moment in Mute City, as it is often called, abustle with all kinds of creatures, humans and aliens alike, milling about on the crowded streets day in and day out, as the holographic billoards and street signs flash in their faces twenty-four hours a day. It is a city full of life, and for that reason, it has become the most popular stop on the F-Zero Grand Prix.
F-Zero. The raceway to the future, some call it. Using machines with anti-magnetic field generators, these racing machines, weighing in at anywhere from 1,000 to 2,000 kilograms, zoom along the circut just inches above the track, suspended millions of meters above the planet's surface. Twists, loops, hairpin turns, and gaping leaps of faith make the F-Zero Grand Prix one of the most dangerous contests ever known to the universe, and also one of the most profitable. After surviving just one race, an F-Zero pilot can earn anywhere above twenty million space credits, and a few Grand Prixs later, may even have more money than the multi-quadrillionaire aristocrats who conceived and birthed the competition. It is a dangerous, vicious, exceedingly brutal, and often a high-speed mechanical bloodbath, and yet creatures from all over the universe gather and compete, and millions more come to watch, all for three simple reasons.
Money. More money. And glory.
These are the races of the F-Zero Grand Prix, pilots who risk thier lives all for money and power. Some call it selfish, others call it foolishly brave. And yet, millions others call it completely exhilerating.
Now, with the final track of the Grand Prix at Mute City ready to be torn apart by thirty different F-Zero machines, the anticipation risies.
-The F-Zero Comitte.
(Illegible signature)
Chapter I: The Cataclysm
Pico gripped the controls tightly, his heart racing and his eyes, a cold and sinister yellow, widened with fear. His palms, wrapped so tightly around his steering wheel, could have crushed diamonds as they grew clammy with sweat inside of his soft, velvet gloves. Mistake after careless mistake had cost him one Grand Prix too many for his liking, and he had a reputation to uphold. He was one of the oldest and most experienced drivers in the F-Zero races, and there he was, sitting at the bottom of the ranking, in last place, on the last track, on the last Grand Prix of the year. The thought of losing yet another Grand Prix irritiated him to to end, and the mere suggestion of losing it in dead last made his green, scaly skin nearly burn red with anger. He knew the Wild Goose, a machine which he built with his own two hands, was capable of great things, and Pico would not dare to settle it for last place. He was a notorious assassin, feared by thousands of worlds alike, and coming in at last place in every single circut in this Grand Prix would make him the laughing stock of the entire universe. I'll show them, Pico vowed to himself as the countdown to the final race began at an ominous three, I'll show them all.
Three. Pico started his engine.
Two. Pico activated the anti-magnet generator, lifting his machine into the air.
One. Pico clenched his teeth.
Half of a count. Pico's heart began to pound.
Zero. And Pico was quickly gone.
The roar of the machines were brutally overpowering. If one was not wearing thick earplugs near the spectator stands at the finish line, he would have gone stone-cold deaf in an instant. There they were, all thitry machines of all shapes and sizes, barreling down the track like there was no tomorrow for any of them, blazing along the circut at mind-boggling, thunderous speeds. Looking out of his rear-view mirror, Pico saw that, at long last, he was in first place, leading the pack by a mile. Quietly laughing to himself, Pico began to feel much better as he coasted around the first sharp corner of the track.
Just as Pico began to feel like nothing could ruin this run, another machine, coming from out of nowhere, pulled up alongside his right. Taking a quick glance over his shoulder, Pico saw the much smaller machine steadily beginning to pull ahead of him, and to Pico's disbelief, as they neared the end of the first lap, the small machine was already ahead of him.
Not willing to settle for second place, as soon as Pico crossed the finish line and began the second lap, he pressed the tiny red button on the center of his wheel, and with a spray of thunder and lightning from his boosters, Pico shot forward with dazzling speed, now neck-in-neck with the rival machine. Taking another quick glance at the machine whose pilot had dared to best him, Pico saw the familiar shape of the Twin Norrita, the lightest machine of them all, and the easiet target to crush. Before Pico could formulate a plan to run his rival off the road, another machine, a bright, shining blue, blasted ahead of him, bearing the name Blue Falcon on it's boosters.
Blue Falcon. The most famous machine of them all, piloted by the most famous pilot of them all, Captain Falcon. The mere thought of being beaten by the legendary Falcon yet again made Pico's blood boil, and by now, they had begun their final lap.
Now trailing in third place and threatening to be lost in fourth, Pico knew that if he were to win this Grand Prix at any respectable place, he would have to come in first on this circut. Pressing his boost button, Pico roared beside the Twin Norrita again, and with a vicious roar, Pico thrust the steering wheel to it's side, throwing the Wild Goose's armor-like body into the frail machine like a freight train into a glass window. The Norrita was sent smashing into the guard rail of the track as Pico blasted the Wild Goose faster and faster down the circut, landing on it's side and suddenly blazing alight with smoke and flames.
Now closing in ever so slowly on Falcon, Pico knew that the Wild Goose' engine could only take one more boost before it would become unstable, and taking the slightest scrape afterwards would lead him to the same fate as Gomar and Shioh, the pilots of the now destoyed Norrita. Taking his chances as the final finish line slowly approached in the distance, Pico boosted one last time as his enine sputtered smoke and sparks, threatening to explode at the slightest disturbance. Barreling past Falcon within just miles of the finish line, Pico took one last moment to look over his shoulder at the now trailing Blue Falcon and scream, "See ya' later, Falcon!"
Content with his taunting, Pico shifted his eyes back onto the track, a split-second too late. The tilted and inclined ramp that led to the finish had slipped Pico's mind completely, and Pico scrambled to control his wildly veering machine. He threw the wheel to the left, and then sharply to the right, sending his machine into a violent spin, speeding towards the barriers. Pico only had time to quickly brace himself before the Wild Goose violently smashed into the rails, and all turned to black.
Pico opened his eyes hours later, seeing the blurry face of the human, Robert Stuart, hovering over his own. Even though it seemed like hours, Pico could only keep his hazing, bloodshot eyes open for barely a second before blacking out once more.