A/N: In the Nintendo manga, Farewell, Beloved Falco, Katt and Falco were once part of a team called the Hot Rodders. After Falco left, Katt remained on the team with a cat named Kool, a crocodile (presumably named Bowsor), and a mouse (apparently speculated to be Mouser). They are referred to in this fic as Katt's past teammates.

Now, after all those years, they've settled down – or, at least, an approximation of whatever "settling down" means. Time has sanded down the rough, gritty edges of their younger selves. But once in a while, there's a glimmer of memory, recollections transporting them back to the former days.

We used to fight side by side, Katt thinks. From Titania to the Lylat Wars, we'd be dead meat if it weren't for each other. Isn't that right, Falco dear?

Disbanding, reuniting. Rebranding and restarting. From the Hot Rodders to Star Fox, it was always the same. A wild and passionate fling, until they couldn't stand each other's guts. Months or years might pass. But always, the thirst for adrenaline reunited them.

The career of a mercenary is brief, perilous, oft tragic. The Lylat War, stretched over five grueling years, halted the lives of millions of fighters and civilians. In nothing short of a miracle, the entire Star Fox team survived intact– at the exception of Fara Phoenix and Bill Grey. As for Katt's part, the Hot Rodders weren't nearly as lucky. Wingmates were lost, one after the other, until she had no team left except her connection with Star Fox. However, for those who lived to see the end of the war, life resumed its course. Fox and Krystal's marriage took place exactly one year after the declaration of peace. Then, Slippy and Amanda's union followed suit. For a while, Falco hung around Corneria. At some point, Katt set course for Fortuna, to take care of some persistent abnormal signals.

From its scars and ruins, Lylat began to rebuild. Political and planetary preoccupations shifted. The calls and contracts started thinning out, then came to a halt. For a while, Katt got by as a mechanic in some seedy setup of a garage in Corneria. She had not heard from Falco for three years. More time passed, and she refused a position in the Cornerian Army as a recruit trainer.

One late night, Falco called. He'd somehow gotten hold of her number, the one she just changed to. They hit each other up, met for a drink and memories of the good ol' times. They reminisced until dawn. She invited him over, and once again, they found themselves sharing the same apartment, same bed, same pre-packaged meals. To both his and her astonishment, Falco hadn't left since.

That was two years ago. Soon, little Marcus McCloud will be six years old.

Katt twists the wrench one last time, securing the bolt in place. She'll have to reassemble the fairing, but the engine is fixed. The kid – no, young man – will be glad to see his motorcycle back up and running.

She tosses off the work gloves. Regaining contact with the air, her paws feel light and free. Back in the day, she did all her fixes bare paw. Who the hell needs those? she would have certainly snickered, in either Slippy or Bowsor's direction. Except, early Cornerian autumns make for comfortable days, and this morning she woke with no desire to mottle her fur with engine grease. She's all too familiar with the texture: sticky, thick and impossibly bothersome to scrub out.

Perhaps there's some wisdom to be found in work gloves, after all.

A few flicks and turns of the wrist, and the fairing is reinstalled. The motorcycle's now as good as new, minus the old surface dents and scratches. How many adventures had it seen? Katt thinks of her own trusty Cat's Paw, whose limber turns and somersaults had saved her from many a certain death. All scrap metal and junkyard filling, now.

She calls up the kid.

It was a good workout. She stretches, yawns, feels the sweat clinging to the roots of her fur. Her attention is brought to the swirls of fur along her forearm. As it is with her face, the hairs grow free in patches of black and white, less black and more white with each year. She wears her shorts rolled down now, and when was the last time she sported a tank top outside of home? Katt blames it on the weather. But every morning, she still breaks out the eyeshadow– fuchsia is her latest obsession. Then, she draws on her eyebrows in thin, fine lines.

The young rat arrives, all decked out in shades and a leather bomber jacket. Something about the setting sun flashes over his lanky form, and Katt is reminded just briefly of good ol' Mouser, rest his poor soul on scorching Solar. He made no sound as he was killed. His ship dropped into the sea of molten red, and left no ripple.

"Ma'am?"

She accepts a handful of credits from the scrawny hand, crinkled and sweaty bills that she stuffs into her pocket. The engine that she fixed rumbles into life, and he's gone. Only then does she realize: she is blinking back tears.

Katt begins the trek home, by foot. When she gets there, Falco will probably still be in the city, roaming about. He's been without a job for months.

Money is a problem. They receive benefits for their wartime contributions. But Corneria is an expensive planet to live in, and gigs are few and far in between. Falco's premium is higher, being an official ex-member of Star Fox and all. Not so in Katt's case. With luck, one or the other might catch wind of a private mission, through some dodgy connection or other. Even so, their reflexes aren't what they used to be. They mostly do repairs now, whatever small commission comes their way.

To fly and to kill. It had been their only mission. As B-Bombs blew and G-Diffusers fell, a team of young pilots fought to survive another dawn. But now, the warbirds find themselves ill-adapted to the script of peace. Away with the rush, the straining of limits, the metallic tang of blood in the back of the mouth.

With tomorrow guaranteed, what's left?

"Hey."

It's half past midnight when the apartment door pushes open. Falco flops down next to her on the couch, feathers in disarray.

Katt bites into a chip, flipping mindlessly through the channels. "Had a rough day?"

He grunts, and reaches into the bag in her lap. "Go figure."

"That's too bad." She mockingly shoos his wing away, before grabbing another chip and feeding it into his beak.

Falco brings his arms over his head, crosses his talons propped over the coffee table. "So, how was that fix on your end?"

"Easy peasy. Kids these days know nothing about their machines. Remember when we were stuck in Fichina, and you rammed Sky Claw into an ice hill?"

"Gee, don't remind me of that."

She suppresses a snicker. "Oops, guess that's still a sore spot. Anyway, I was impressed with how quick you got her back up and running."

"Well, hate to say it, but you kinda helped."

Katt flicks off the T.V. "C'mere," she beckons with a paw, salt and chip crumbs in tow. "Gimme a hug."

The Falco next to her is older, quieter, tamer. But Katt knows that, deep within, he's still the same cocky bastard who had once impressed her so. Fiery, fierce Falco, somersaulting free and easy in the void of space. Meanwhile, somewhere beneath, she's still that girl parading around in pink full-body dye, blue eyeshadow glimmering over batting, mascara-lined eyes. With a sway of the hips, a little flash of a low top, she would get the boys and even girls to wink, beg and drool. Would they still fall for her, if they saw her now? Whether she cares, she does not know.

Mid-thirties is still pretty young, but war ages you. It makes you a whole other person.

(To be continued.)