Chapter Text
PNF-404’s air is humid, unpleasantly so. It hangs heavy on the ground, seemingly sticking to the dirt and plant life, cloying and wet in a way that left his suit damp and uncomfortable. Even the filters of his suit couldn’t fully clean the air of the pungent scents of rainwater and honeysuckle, not that it was doing that much anyway.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a button on his suit blinking a dull red. His life support systems will fail soon; they already had been, he supposed, the batteries slowly dying with each passing day, but he fears they’ll really fail soon, and the looming threat of suffocation has him swallowing anxiously.
He couldn’t stay on this planet any longer, that much was certain.
He let out a sharp whistle through his helmet and the Pikmin, though straining under the weight of the S.S. Dolphin’s Chronos Reactor, rush to his side with a series of excited chirps and songs. The sight would’ve made him crack a small smile, at least some people are enjoying the humidity, but all he can focus on is the hike back to his ship.
The sky was growing darker, and Olimar urges the Pikmin to pick up the pace even though he was well aware that they were going as fast as they could go. Still, it’s endearing to see them try for his sake. It was baffling to see how much they cared about him, and he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. He wondered if they even knew he was an alien, or if they just thought he was just a strange-looking Pikmin. Surely, they were aware he was leaving, at least, they knew what a ship was and even had one of their own—
Oh, he's going off track.
The growing sounds of wildlife fill his ears as the sun hangs lower and lower in the sky; the dissonant chorus of groaning bulborbs and chirping shearwigs ringing out against an orange backdrop.
He goes just a little faster, enough to be ahead of the Pikmin, but not enough to accidentally leave any behind. It’s the least he could do, considering all they’ve done for him.
He lets out a quiet sigh of relief as the towering grass becomes more familiar to him, brushing some of the local flora in his path aside to reveal the clearing where his precious ship lies.
Admittedly, it can hardly be called a ship.
It’s riddled with holes and empty space where her parts should be, and while he’s busted his tail-end off to find as many parts as he could, he isn’t sure if that’d be enough.
Frowning, he takes a deep breath, attempting to ease his fraying nerves. The intake burns his lungs and leaves a nipping sting at the back of his throat, and the red blinking of his suit is suddenly more prominent than ever.
As Olimar approaches the ship, a huddle of Pikmin follows close behind, he blindly fumbles around in his backpack, feeling around until his gloved fingers brush against one of his most reliable companions: a notepad.
Pulling it out, he’s quick to flip through the pages, staring down at a list of the S.S. Dolphin’s missing parts. He distinctly remembers making it; carefully cataloging each part when he crash-landed here, considering which were vital to the ship’s flight, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he rallied the willpower to survive this unforgiving planet. He only needed twenty-five pieces, after all. Twenty-five, and then he could go home.
It’s both amazing and harrowing how much can change in just thirty days.
He mentally checks off each part as his eyes trail down the list, brows furrowing the farther he goes.
Twenty-three.
He has twenty-three parts.
It’s not enough, doesn’t even meet the minimum part requirement he calculated, but it will have to do. If he’s lucky, he may not even need the other two pieces. Besides, the twenty-five was just an estimate, and he’s not a mechanic, what does he know? Maybe the ship will fly regardless; it was certainly able to launch into the atmosphere nights before, so it wouldn’t be a huge leap in logic to assume that it’ll be able to make the trip to Hocotate (the consolations sound hollow even in his own head).
Either way, he can’t stay here. He’d rather run the risk of crashing and burning than dying a slow death from suffocation.
He blows a short whistle, pointing towards his ship, and the Pikmin are swift to drag the Chronos Reactor to it, easily finding the open nook and slotting it into place with surprising intelligence. Had he not been departing soon, he would be eager to study them more, but alas (he even debated taking a few of his favorites with him for a moment but quickly disregarded the idea. It’d be cruel to separate the Pikmin from each other, and he didn’t think their oxygen-efficient bodies would be able to survive Hocotate’s atmosphere anyway).
Once finished, Olimar ushered the Pikmin away from the ship. The Captain takes one last look at the S.S. Dolphin, his prized vessel that served him well throughout the years, and pops open the hatch. His ship hadn’t failed him before, it won’t fail him now. It won't.
As he climbs in, he glances back at the Pikmin. Most of them had already clambered into their Onions for the night, and he didn’t blame them, he knew what happened to those stranded alone at night.
However, he was a tad surprised to see three Pikmin still standing guard, their black beady eyes still trained on him as if awaiting orders.
They had to know he was leaving, had to know it was nightfall. They’d die if they stayed out here, so why—?
He makes a loose ‘shooing’ gesture, pointing at the Red Onion and whistling for good measure, ordering them to go back for the night.
Their stems waiver in response, but the Pikmin don’t move, and Olimar blinks at the shock of it.
They’ve never not listened before.
The air is growing colder, and the moon is peeking over the horizon. He has to leave, now.
Olimar hurries to the cockpit of the S.S. Dolphin and gives a somber wave to the Pikmin out the fish-eyed window, a final goodbye. He hopes they don’t linger for too long; they’ve been such good companions to him throughout this whole journey, and he doesn’t want them to be eaten just because they stuck around to watch him leave (or die in a blaze of fire).
He starts the ship, and the S.S. Dolphin sputters to life, the engine stuttering as oil floods the tank.
It’s…not a great sign, but the ship’s running, so that’s good.
In the back of the ship, he hears the reactor wheezing from energy shortage, and there are wires sparking from just underneath the control panel, overheating.
He strangles down the lump in his throat, and ignores what feels like tumbling rocks in his stomach; pure dread—
—but the ship lifts off, and he’s being hurled into the atmosphere.
For a minute, a whole sixty seconds, he’s triumphant. The fearless Captain Olimar, who survived the hostile planet, PNF-404, and then suddenly he's not.
The ship trembles and stalls, the system’s sirens blare overhead in a flash of red and blue.
He’s not going to make it.
Even after all his hard work, he’s still going to fail. His wife always did tell him that he gave up too easily, that must’ve been it. Something went wrong on his part; if only he had been a little smarter, a little faster, a little more efficient.
Hocotate’s Moons, he’s never going to see his kids again. His son and daughter will grow up fatherless, and his poor wife a widow!
How will they support themselves without him? Will his wife have to work, his children? What about their mortgage? Oh, he hopes the bank will be nice to his family. They shouldn’t have to be homeless from his failures.
Will they even know what happened to him? The paralyzing thought comes suddenly, bleak, unprompted, and utterly terrible. Will they find his body and bury him back on Hocotate, or will they declare him missing in action, lost for the rest of space-time?
He’s not sure which is worse; his family seeing his dead body or his family never receiving the closure they deserve, wondering forever—
The system’s abruptly shut off, and he’s left in pitch blackness.
If he squints hard enough, he might be able to get a glimpse of Hotocate’s rings, wouldn’t that be nice?
The ship is falling, and Olimar can feel heat licking at his heels. Gravity is truly a cruel mistress.
He thinks of his family, the words unsaid, and all the things he’ll never get to do (he’ll never get to see his daughter’s school play, never see his son win his first soccer match, never see his children graduate, never, never, never).
He hopes they know that he’s sorry.
He hopes they know that he loves them.
The ship is shaking hard now, throwing him around the cockpit like a ragdoll. The hull is getting hotter, and it’s hard to breathe. The windows crack under the pressure.
He holds his breath and braces for impact.
The last thing he feels is glass cutting his cheeks and the rush of air.