$#%&*BROKEN GLASS*&%#$ (The first F-Zero fic on TPM!!)

[Mewfour]

$#%&*BROKEN GLASS*&%#$

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.

[Mewfour]

Chapter II: The Aftermath

The news, staggering as it was in its titanic nature, was nothing short of devastating to all who heard it. Intergalactic trade had fallen, the universal stock market had crashed into depths unimaginably low, and one man was blamed for it all.

Sitting on the hospital cafeteria chair with his arm in a cast and sling, Pico rubbed the bandage over his brow as he watched the news report on the holographic television. Doom and gloom in the economies all over the universe were present, and it was predicted that another universal depression was only months away. Pico sighed bitterly to himself, moaning as his bruised ribs stabbed his chest with a blunt pain, finishing the rest of his drink. A waitress passed by his table, and Pico dug into his wallet, and pulled out a two-space credit bill. "Another glass, please," Pico moaned, rubbing his sides. The waitress only sneered at him and walked away.

Pico caught her name on the tag on her chest, memorized it, and when he did, she would not live past three days after he was released. Not wanting to hear any more of the depressing braodcast, Pico reached onto the table beside him, wincing as he beared his aching shoulder, and grabbed the front page of the newspaper on the middle of the table. Flipping it around to read, Pico saw the top story in big bold letters:

"F-ZERO GRAND PRIX STILL SUSPENDED!"

"Races on hold for indefinite length, says F-Zero Committe chairman," said a smaller sub-heading. "The catastrophic accident last week had led the F-Zero Comitte to indefinetely ban the F-Zero Grand Prix, despite much protest from the public, even after a group of pro-F-Zero citizens lobbied councilmen and representative's offices across the universe, demanding that the races be re-instated.

"It's a travesty," says one protester who refuses to be named, "Just because one pilot wanted to win so badly doesn't mean the whole races should be put off."

"The F-Zero Grand Prix has been a staple in the economy since it's inception in the early 26th century, and with its suspension has brought massive economic hardships all over the universe."

Pico put the paper down there. "The accident sent all thirty pilots on the track to the Mute City hospital," the news report on the television said, "Thanks to the miraculous work of doctor Robert Stuart, also sent to the hospital for minor injuries to his knee and foot, no lives were lost in the accident. But while all the other pilots are expected to recover, perhaps the most worrysome case is that of Mighty Gazelle, the pilot of the Red Gazelle."

A picture flashed on the screen, revealing a bright red machine, sticking between two upheaved sections of the track, smoking and flaming wildly.

"Gazelle, who has refused to give his real name to the public since the beginning of his career, is in serious critical condition, and is not expected to survive long without life support. Doctor Clash and John Tanaka, both long-time machinists and also injured pilots, have proposed a mechanical body for Gazelle, and are now awaiting medical approval from doctor Stewart.

"The accident details are sketchy, but it is generally considered by many that the pilot of Wild Goose, the infamous hitman known only as Pico, is to blame with his unusually reckless driving."

Why are they all blaming it on me? He asked himself. It was just as much Falcon's fault as it was mine. Unhappy with the accusation, Pico grabbed his crutches and hobbled away, looking to find something to cheer him up.

Suddenly, he found an idea.

***

Falcon lay motionless on his bed, the IV tube connected snugly into his veins, with a large metal clamp holding his jaw shut underneath his bright red helmet which he refused to take off, and with his left leg wrapped in a cast and lifted up from the ceiling. When Pico entered the room, Falcon snarled, "Duugh yuu mhynd?" as best he could through his fastened jaw.

"Well, it's good to see you too, old pal," Pico said, hopping to Falcon's bedside.

"Fhhhk awwwf, yuu guddamm suunufa bihhhf."

"Cheerful as usual, eh?" Pico said, pulling up a chair from beside Falcon. "So what happened to you?"

"Yuu browwwke mmhh jahhhhhhw ahhn mmhh lehhhg, whuudd duhhhss hhht luuuhk liiiike?"

"Hey, you know, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," said Pico. "You know, we've had our differences before, right?"

"Guuust ghehht tuu tuuuh poiiinnnt," Falcon growled impatiently.

"Well, look," said Pico, "I feel bad that I almost killed everyone, I really do," he said, trying to sound sincere.

"Buuuh sheeeeet," Falcon mumbled.

"No really, I do," said Pico. "I'm going through all the rooms saying that, but I really want you to have this more than anyone," Pico said, digging through his pocket and handing Falcon a small metal object.

Falcon took the small box from Pico and examined it with his free hand. "Whuuut ihhhhs hht?"

"It's a space credit container," said Pico. "Lord knows, with all those Grand Prixs you win, you need lots of them."

Falcon grinned as best he could with his broken jaw. "Whuuut'sss tuhh cashh?" he muttered.

"No catch," said Pico, "You know that everything has to be screened before anyone brings anything in here."

Falcon looked at the box suspisiously, and then put it on his bedside counter. "Yuuuh'vve gahht thirtttty piiluuuhtss tuu goooh aphhologiiihhze tuu," Falcon said, "Yuu'd behhtterrh gheet muuhvinnggh."

"Thanks, Falcon," said Pico, putting his hand back into his pocket as he left, "I will. Get better soon, eh?"

--

Once outside of Falcon's room, Pico quickly dashed to the male's washrooms. Taking out a small, sleek cell phone from one pocket and a small plugged tube with a single strand of hair and a bloodied piece of Kleenex in it from the other, Pico dialed a number on his cell phone and waited for someone to answer. "Hello, Black Shadow?" Pico asked, "I hope you've got your wallet handy," said Pico with a smirk, eyeing the tube with the hair and bloody tissue inside, "I've got something that just might interest you..."

[SWAMPERT1]

tobadno one replied....until now! [evillaugh]HAHAHAHAHA![/evillaugh] This is likable. Please continue. I really like it. Its quite original.

[Mewfour]

Chapter III- The Beginning of the End

The straight-jacket was wrapped snugly around him, fastening his arms to his sides. His head kept spinning and spinning, and the room floated around in his hazy vision. Sitting on the carpet floor, he leaned his slender body against the soft, padded wall, his head swaying from side to side, and he murmured the same line to himself as he did for the whole week he was in the locked and barricaded room. The dark and brooding cell was lit only by the thin slits of light that the bars of the small window in the iron door let in. In the hallway outside, a man peeked into the dark room, muttering in a mix of anger and pity.

"Poor old fool," he sighed, turning to the group behind him. "He's been singing the same line ever since we took him off of that device of his."

Falcon peeked into the room as well, and saw the familiar shape of his old nemesis, once a cold and sinister pale blue, now with a decrepit and weakly white hue.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock.

Tick, tock, tick tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock..."

"He's lost it," Falcon muttered.

"Let me see," Goroh said, pushing Falcon out of the way.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock.

Tick, tock, tick tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock..."

Goroh almost laughed. "Yeah, he's cracked, all right."

Just then, a red-gloved hand clamped itself on Goroh's shoulder. "Enough mockery," said its owner. Goroh turned to see the face of Super Arrow behind him. "Zoda deserves some peace and quiet."

Goroh blinked in disbelief. "I thought you two hated each other."

"Zoda and I were enemies, indeed," said Arrow, "but he is still a sentient being."

"Pfft. Whatever," Goroh snorted, leaving the window. Turning to the man beside him, Goroh asked, "So when do I collect my reward?"

Before the attendant could answer, Falcon said, "Your reward? Try my reward instead."

Goroh hissed at Falcon. "I caught him, Falcon. You just happened to total his machine."

"You just happened to be in the way."

"I just happened to grab him before you let him slip away again!"

"And I just happened to keep him from killing both of us!"

"Well I ju-!"

Suddenly, Arrow was between them. "Bickering is a needless waste of energy," he said, parting the two away from each other. "What matters is that Zoda has finally been brought to justice."

Goroh sneered silently at Falcon, who silently sneered back. "Of course," Arrow continued, "I brought the rest of the Space Federation to apprehend him, so if anything, I deserve a bit of the bounty too."

"I share my bounties with no one," Goroh hissed.

"Neither do I," Falcon grumbled.

"Fighting, fighting, is that all you boys ever do?" asked a female voice from behind Arrow.

Arrow turned around to see his wife, Mrs. Arrow. "No," Arrow replied innocently.

"Well how about you let Falcon and Goroh settle it between them, hmm?" Mrs. Arrow suggested, holding her husband's arm in hers. "There's pie waiting at home for the brave boy who finally captured Zoda," she said with a sly grin.

Arrow smirked. "What kind of pie?" He asked playfully.

"Why don't you come on home and find out?" Mrs. Arrow whispered back.

Arrow grinned. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, holding Mrs. Arrow close, "I've got some "pie" to take care of."

With that, the Arrows left, leaving just Falcon, Goroh, and the attendant in the hall. "Lucky little bastard," Goroh muttered.

Falcon turned to the attendant. "So, can we ask him something now?"

"Oh, right, sure," said the attendant, quickly unlocking the cell door. "Remember, if he acts up again, use this," said the attendant, handing Falcon a small taser. Falcon nodded his thanks as he and Goroh entered.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock...."

Falcon and Goroh looked at Zoda in disbelief. "And this babbling idiot is Zoda?" Goroh muttered.

"He has an I.Q. of 370, Goroh," said Falcon, "I hardly consider him an idiot."

Goroh looked at Zoda again.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock..."

"For someone who's not an idiot, he sure does have a small vocabulary," Goroh snorted.

Zoda lifted his head, and saw Falcon and Goroh standing over him.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock..."

Falcon rolled his eyes. "Hello, Zoda," he said, kneeling down to Zoda. Zoda only nodded and continued to chant. "Now, we need to ask you a few questions, all right?"

"Zoda will answer,
or Zoda may not.
What Zoda says
is all Zoda's got."

Falcon tried to figure Zoda's rhyme out. "Whatever," he said when he finally gave up. "Listen, why were you driving the Death Anchor on the street in broad daylight?"

"Zoda tried to escape,
but Zoda was caught.
Zoda was scared of someone,
but Falcon it was not."

"Escape?" Goroh muttered, "escape from what?"

"What Zoda fears,
Zoda cannot speak.
Zoda fears that
which makes the universe weak."

"Enough Mother Goose lessons, Zoda," Goroh snarled, his slim patience already beginning to wear thin. "What were you running from?"

And suddenly, Zoda grinned.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock,
can you hear it?
It's the clock."

Goroh's lip curled into a snarl, his fist clenched, and his arm wound back. Falcon held on to Goroh's wrist just before Zoda got a taste of Goroh's knuckles. "Thank you, Zoda. You've told us enough today."

"B-b-but-" Goroh stammered as Falcon left the cell. As Falcon left, Goroh sneered one last time as he followed Falcon.

*****

Pico had overturned everything he came across in the musky, dark, and damp hideaway, and he found nothing. No desk, table or chair was safe from him, now either turned upside down or lying in splinters. "Come on, where is it?" Pico growled to himself, throwing over another table, sending the various tools flying all over the room. Pico snarled in frustration, and kicked over the desk to his left, spilling all the diagrams and drawing tools onto the floor. "How am I supposed to kill a guy that I don't even know is still alive?" he fumed, pushing over a small control deck. Pico knelt down on the floor, and began sifting through the scattered papers on the floor. Whatever meant nothing to him, he tore to shreds, and soon, he grew on the edge of pure rage. "Damn you, you scatterbrained evil mastermind!"

Pico groaned, picked up the chair he had last kicked over, and sat down. Resting his jaw in his palm, Pico breathed a heavy sigh. "I had better be getting a good wage for this."

Suddenly, Pico heard a noise from afar. "Oh ****," Pico gasped, bolting off of the chair. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs to the underground bunker, ones which Pico knew well. Pico looked all over the room, looking for a possible hiding spot that he had not yet destroyed. Finding a small closet on the wall, Pico dashed into it and hastily closed the door.

Immediately, Pico heard someone walking by the wreckage he had created. "Master Shadow?" He heard a voice call out. "Master Shadow, are you here?" Pico peered out of the tiny window slits of the closet, seeing the familiar red jumpsuited figure he knew all too well. "Hello? Master Shadow?"

Pico grinned. He knew this creature well. After all, he had a hand in creating him. Clearing his throat, Pico barked in the deepest, guffest voice he could muster. "Blood Falcon!"

Pico immediately heard the being throw himself to his knees. "Master Shadow! You've returend!"

Pico snickered quietly to himself. "Let's have a little fun," Pico thought to himself. "Blood Falcon, prepare to make a statement to the universe."

"But Master Shadow, where are you?" Pico heard Blood Falcon whine.

"Do not question me, fool!"

"Please forgive me, Master Shadow!" Blood squeaked pitifully. "What shall I tell the universe?"

Pico paused, and thought hard. Then, when an idea for causing chaos that satisfied his craving for massive carnage came to him, Pico said, "Blood Falcon, tell the universe that their future ruler has returned."