Shadows of Corneria IC

[Makori]

Daylon City, Corneria

0 ALW, 2 months after I-Day

Sergeant Clay Busch dashed over a rubble wall, clutching his Armsman service blaster close to his chest as he took a dive, skidding through the dirt.  It might have been a mistake, as bolts of plasma and laser beams shot through the air around him, pieces of the building popping off in molten chunks.  He tried to move forward, but the wall in front of him disintegrated under the barrage from a plasma repeater cannon, slamming his back against the wall before he leaned around, firing a few retaliatory shots.  Unfortunately, his disciplined blaster shots were answered by four nearby Venomian conscripts covering his position in a crossfire from their Tyrant carbines. 

The horse huffed, listening to the hailstorm of plasma and laser around him, trying to figure out how many there were and which direction they came from, every few seconds leaning out and popping a few shots in the direction of the heavy weapons nest.  He’d never hit anything firing wildly like this, but it helped to keep them in one place.

Fortunately, the lizards were all in the same building as the cannon, and the horse trooper primed a grenade before tossing it at the enemy position with his mightiest throw.  One of the lizards dove away, but another squinted, realizing this wasn’t the sphere-shaped plasma grenade they’d expected, but a can-sized chrome cylinder with a single pulsing green light.

And then the mortars that had locked onto the transponder grenade pummeled the structure, bringing it down on the VIG troopers’ heads.

He gave it a second or two before he leaned out, Armsman out before him as he ventured into the ruined street.  Overhead, an Army Air Force Swordfish interceptor soared past, pursued by a pair of VIG Invaders.  In the sudden silence following the firefight, the sound of the three aircraft high above was deafening.  Shaking off the uneasy feeling in his gut, the sergeant glanced both ways before making a short dash into the ruined position, peering in with his rifle out first.  Sure enough, the explosive shells had ruined this place, turning everyone inside into so many little chunks of rare meat, the repeater cannon torn to scrap.  It was a rather horrifying sight.

Busch turned, calling out “All clear!”

From behind him came his squad, made up of four dog soldiers and a hulking rhino that came up the street from their position, which had been under suppressing fire from the now-destroyed blaster nest.  Clyde winced as he watched his men coming.  There had been seven troopers when he’d left the foxhole.

They all moved through the rubble of destroyed buildings and burned out husks of cars, hustling up to take positions around him, the rhino kneeling to watch the skies with his Skyshield missile launcher.  One dog, a staghound with twin chevrons on his shoulderpad, hustled over to Clyde, glancing around before nodding and stating “Sergeant, all present and accounted for.  We lost Dietrich and Gavins after you went over.”

Clyde sighed in resignation, peering around at his now reduced fireteam, taking a mental tally.  These men weren’t even all from his original squad, made up of a collective from across the platoon and, in the rhino’s case, another company.  The initial orbital bombardment had mainly targeted defensive works and military housing, causing thousands of casualties even before the first VIG Marine had touched boots on ground.  That was the way Venom fought, after all.  With the CDF Navy torn apart and the Army Air Corps tangled up in trying to keep their far more numerous aerial enemies back, the troopers on the ground had to bear the brunt of the punishment.

“Okay…we need to meet up with the main unit again, find out who’s left this time.  Colonel Hoss was in command last time I remember, right Frasier?”

Corporal Frasier, the staghound, winced.

“Actually Sergeant, he was killed in the last barrage.  Captain Cutter took command before we left.”

“Really?  Damn…Cutter’s a right-“

“INCOMING!”

Abruptly, the wall next to them blew outward in a cloud of rubble, and a metallic limb swung out, grabbing up Private Cosway in one iron grip before the rest of the vehicle emerged.  The Ogre assault mech that emerged stood fifteen feet tall, with the typical red and black insignia of the VIG Army, including a Jolly Roger emblem of Andross’ face emblazoned across the chest.  It stared down at the CDF troopers with a blank, expressionless look on its face before its left hand crushed Cosway with an almost dismissive flexing of servos, tossing the ruined corpse away like an afterthought.

“CONTACT!” one of the troopers yelled, and everyone stood to unleash a hail of shots from their Armsman rifles, which unfortunately did little more than mar the paint.  The rhino leveled his missile launcher, but before he could fire the Ogre’s own CQB guns blazed from its hips, tearing the anti-armor trooper apart.

“Back!” Busch hollered, grabbing a nearby Labrador by the collar and pulling her around a destroyed car.  “Get where he can’t maneuver and use grenades!”

He himself pulled a pair of plasma bombs from his belt, leaving his Armsman dangling from his chest, useless in this fight.  As he dashed around a destroyed semi, the cannon on the Ogre’s right hand fired, vaporizing another trooper who hadn’t gotten to cover in time.  Clyde altered his approach, charging straight at its flank, where the CQB repeaters couldn’t get him in time.  If he could just get up there…

 

Kurtis Pub, New Randel, Zoness

10 ALW, 1 year after the Aparoid Invasion

Zoness Blues

Kurtis Pub was actually not run by Kurtis anymore.  In fact, the raccoon named Kurtis who had first owned the place wasn’t even alive.  As the Venomian Imperial Guard had swept across Zoness, they’d militarized as many facilities as they could in their process of occupying and annexing the watery world.  Kurtis had been executed during one of the sweeps to eliminate resistance by the VIG Army, while the Armada had rained fire down on the city itself.  But somehow, the pub had survived both the occupation and the CDF counterattack to liberate the planet.  When the Aparoids arrived nine years later, somehow the pub survived once more, even if it lost another owner.

Now, the place was run by a polar bear, a rough man named Gustav who had bought the place, allowing it to become a hub of side business for several of the gangs, cartels and criminal families of New Randel, as well as Zoness itself.  Kurtis Pub was now a hangout of gangsters, mercenaries, pirates, pilots and other roughneck ruffians.  The place even screamed grime, like the rest of New Randel and, by extension Zoness as a whole.  About half of the lights weren’t working, and the ones left were positioned in poor places to illuminate the rest of the room.  A row of neon green tubes lines the space over the bar, where license plates, street signs, patches of VIG and CDF uniforms and photos of grav-bikers and military units were all mounted around the shelves and cabinets full of liquor.  A few biker club patches and jackets, the collected scales of a dead aparoid and even a picture of the original Kurtis himself completed the ensemble as an establishment that had weathered two wars, and continued to survive the polluted world’s gang strife.

And here he was, hunched over a cheap whiskey as he tried to figure out why he was here.  The bar itself was covered in nicks and chips, probably from the knives these thugs planted in them all the time, and around him were a crowd of criminals, mercenaries and thugs, all of them laughing raucously, boasting and cursing over their drinks.  Every few minutes, a minor scuffle would break out, to settle down after a few punches and drinks were tossed around.

There was only one reason Clyde Busch, retired Staff Sergeant, was here; a message for a job offer that had popped up in his message box.  “Lucrative employment on Fortuna.  Applicants must be armed, and capable of defending themselves.  Come to Kurtis Pub, New Randel, Zoness at 1600 local time.  Details to follow.”

In the mercenary trade, Clyde had learned, messages didn’t really pop up in your box, so you needed a fixer.  His was a sparrow named Trish, a hacker who kept her ear in the data nets to fish for juicy information to give to clients.  He gave her credits every week or so to learn what was out there, lacking the large contracts of bigger mercenary groups like HellCat Alpha or the Dantius Legion.  Ever since the end of the Aparoid Invasion, militaries and local militias were forced to downscale while the civil administration repaired the damage.  Even now, a year later, Corneria was still rebuilding, and other places that had been devastated like Sauria and Fichina still had battlefields that could be visited.  So many soldiers had been discharged from the Lylat Federation and MacBeth Protectorate that entire private armies had popped up overnight, soldiers whose only trade skill was the art of conflict.  With reduced military forces, all of the Lylation powers made extensive contracts with these groups, and tales like those of the exploits of Star Fox, Star Wolf and others made being a mercenary suddenly into a legitimate profession.

Regardless, Trish had given him this tip, and whether it panned out or not, Clyde needed the work.  He’d gone solo specifically to avoid the crap handled by large scale organizations, like what he’d had to deal with in the Army.  Personal views aside, there was quite a lot of blame to go around for the last decade.

So now, he sat here in this bar and waited.

[Shmibli7]

(I'm guessing we all meet in the bar.)

[Makori]

(It's only what is stated in the ad.  If you want, you can have arrived at a different time/place/knew connections to get you to where the client wants to actually meet.  No criminal is actually stupid enough to hire mercenaries in a public bar and expect to go unnoticed, however seedy.  Just write what you want, I'm not trying to ramrod anyone.)

[Arminius H O Fiddywinks]

The screams. The darkened noon sky. The amber painted buildings. The falling glass towers. The crumbling castle. The bodies blocking tank access to the streets. As Bohdan stared out onto the murky street, this is what he was hallucinating, gripping his pistol in his holster like he was holding onto it for dear life while he dangled from the precipice of a bottomless chasm, with his wings clipped. Korben, who sat beside him against the door of the car, as he was pushed to it by Bohdan's sheer size, worried for his comrade. His mind had been flashing back twenty years all too often. Sometimes, Korben would shake Bohdan by the shoulder in hopes to bring him back to the present day, but alas, it was usually a failure, as Bohdan would interpret the shaking as the shuddering of the ground as a distant bomb demolished another city block, killing another few dozen Cerinians. Another few dozen going to Hell just because they worshiped more than one God. The blood from a Cerinian slain by Bohdan, staining his bastard sword, cursed because it was Pagan. Nothing more. Just a simple question of faith. Nothing more. All those wars. Just because of God. Nothing more. Fortunately, the madness that plagued the Royal Palace is no more, dying with the previous Czar, Vladimir XVII, known as "The Bloody". Bloody was an understatement. Now, his very own son, the current Czar, denounces his father as a bloodthirsty madman who did whatever had to be done to conquer, annex, or vassalize neighboring worlds. The wars that Bohdan fought in, the conflicts that reddened his steel, that made his gun barrel hot, were in the name of a madman. How strange, that so many lives could be lost, could be taken, due to the whim of a madman. Now, Bohdan seeks penance. He seeks forgiveness. But he is lost. Again, he is drawn into violence, but not for God or for the Empire, but for money. For survival. Will God forgive him? That is a question he keeps asking Him. And there has not been an answer. Not yet. No answer for the slaughter of the Cerinian Royal Family. And Bohdan does not believe that the sparing of two of the Royal Family's children was enough to clean his hands of the dark blood on his hands, the blood of a century of suffering.

"Atya," a youthful voice called to Bohdan. Suddenly, he was not on Cerinia, but on Zoness. Bohdan looked to Sandor in the front passenger seat, who stared at him in return. "We are here." The vehicle had stopped in front of a decrepit dive bar in the middle of a pathetic excuse of a city, wrecked by violence not dissimilar to the violence Bohdan had participate in during Operation: Armageddon. However, this city was a timeshare by the beach in comparison to Lyonesse.

"Welcome to New Randall," said Elizabeth, her sunglasses deflecting the punishing sun, "the place Corneria decided to steal from the natives."

"Inside," Korben reminded the team. The four of them entered the dingy bar.

[Shmibli7]

Corneria City, 1800 hrs.

As Goldfinger played on the record player of politician Gerald Syng's apartment, government-sponsored assassin Rakon Nerano beheld the sight directlty in front of him: Syng, tied to a chair. The corgi squirmed at his restraints as the hitman stood in front of him.

"Do you know why I chose this song?" Rakon asked his victim.

"Damn you, Fortunan scum!" Syng said.

"Come now." Rakon said. "At least die with some dignity. Do you why I chose this song?"

"Yes." Syng said through clenched teeth.

"Good. You're... Embezzlement scheme cost the Cornerian government nearly billions." Nerano  said. "Obviously, you can't bring the money back."

"So they sent you to kill me." Syng said. "How moronic."

"I would tend to agree." The young fat-tailed gecko said as he reached into the shoulder holster which carried his weapon, a .456 plasma revolver. It sat close to his black turtle-necked shirt and was made of leather."But a job's a job." 

He fired, hitting Syng in the neck,  causing the chair to fall backwards.

Then came the job of cleaning the mess. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and called Desmond, his cleaner.

"Hello, Desmond." He said. "I'm afraid we have quite a nasty one." He walked out of the apartment and got into his car, driving to the agency that he worked for.

....

Two hours later he was in a briefing room in the headquarters of the Cornerian Secret Service. His handler, a husky by the name of John Serco, threw a file on the table in front of him and began speaking. "There's a job we want you to undertake." He began.

[Clearwater]

- Fortuna Jungles, 19:30 Local Time

Jump, grab, swing, release. Jump, grab, swing, release. That's all that was to it. Simple enough for a macaw of his strength. The momentum carried him from branch to branch, easily giving him a rythmn to go to. Just let hisself hover in the air for a few seconds and wait for gravity to take over yet again, then outstretch those wings of his and grab the next branch. It was so simple, but the level of endurance required was rather high.

Fair enough that his companion didn't have the necessary strength.

Sal looked down as he swung again to see Spector just simply flying instead of swinging, focusing on speed rather than rythmn. He was more suited to quick thinking  rather than agility and endurance. But he wasn't the nomad Sal was.

''Couldn't go any faster if you tried to, huh?'' Sal called down to Spector in Brazilian Portugese.

''Y'know me, amigo. I'm not the strong type. We can't be all the same; we all should have different traits and types so all the bases are covered.'' Spector called back. Sal grinned and shook his head.

Still not much of an excuse. And you're the quiet one normally...

The silence resumed. Sal focused on his pattern again. Jump, grab, swing, release. Jump, grab, swing, rele--

An extremely loud bang suddenly rang out from somewhere, and the branch that Sal was about to grab on suddenly exploded into hundreds of wooden chiplets. He gasped and suddenly found himself falling.

''Sal!''

Spector noticed that his friend was in trouble, and turned around.

Sal managed to right himself and spread his wings to balance himself out. Another loud bang rang out, and a bullet hit the ground close to where Spector was.

''Get down and stay down!'' Sal shouted, as he and Spector took cover behind trees. Someone was targeting them, but why?

Sal grunted and fetched from his backpack his survival knife and his Reman Disruptor - a relic from his days serving aboard the Retribution's Thunder with Sub-Admiral Trask and Tovan. He flicked the safety off and slowly peered around the corner.

''Whoever wants us dead,'' Spector said, ''I get the feeling its related to back then.''

Sal grunted, knowing what he was talking about.

''C'mon, show yourself...'' Sal said aloud.

[Makori]

Kurtis Pub

Four strangers entered behind him, and Clyde raised a brow as they did.  They certainly didn’t look like the pub’s regular clientele.  Clean-cut, no gang flags or grav-biker patches, armed under their coats if he read it right.  Some of them had long, haunted stares that told of years at warfare, and they weren’t immediately causing some kind of small riot as soon as they walked in.  They had to be like him, freelancers here for the job.

Gustav eyed them warily before he nodded, beckoning the strangers over.

“Here for the job?  Your new boss’ll be showing up soon.  Make yourself comfortable, you can’t miss her.”

However, before the four could even move, a warthog rose from his chair to stand before the band.  Dressed in road leathers and a pair of dark shades, his arms and chest decorated with tattoos, he glared at the four with beady little eyes.  At the table he had just stood from, five more hogs watched the group carefully, similarly dressed and adorned.  The Road Hawgs, a grav-bike gang that favored the Westrick borough as their turf.  For some reason, their leader Boss Hawg decided he wanted to pick a fight with these strangers.

“Job?  Y’all are here for a –job- in our bar?  I know who you’re working for, and you’re doing it on my turf?  Who the hell do you outsiders think you are?”

At the bar, Clyde turned on his stool slowly, reaching down to the scattergun leaning against the bar next to him, eyes narrowed.  This could be trouble, and he might need those mercs for the operation ahead…

 

 

Fortuna

When the Cornerian Army had fought the aparoids, they had figured Fortuna to be scrubbed of Oikonny’s rebels.  After all, with their main base destroyed, their leader apparently dead and the system under siege by hordes of cybernetic insects, how could Venom’s remnants survive?  Well, by some sick stroke of fortune, the aparoids had never actually come back to Fortuna, and when the CDF had pulled out to deal with the Invasion, the surviving rebels regrouped.  With more than a year to get their act together, Fortuna was now firmly Venomian.

This one group was responsible for hunting down the natives and ending any threat they may pose.  They pushed hard to cut down tribal warriors, and made sure those left knew not to come anywhere near the mountain bases.  So it was a surprise to the lizard holding his Tyrant to see the macaw in the trees holding an energy weapon.  He glanced to the monkey next to him, who shrugged, before looking to the Komodo dragon nearby, a set of sergeant’s pips on his shoulderpads.  The heavy lizard was a former VIG Marine, and he had the scars to prove it.  The men next to him, and by extension the squad around him, may only have been conscripts with a bare education in military tactics, but they were committed.

He held up a hand, pausing before dropping it in a chop, indicating the flank.  Immediately, two mandrills and a gecko cut through the jungle quietly, their green fatigues (and in the gecko’s case her skin) helped to break up their profiles.  Then, with that, the Komodo patted a baboon nearby on the shoulder.  Taking a breath, the ape stood, leveling his grenade launcher and squeezing the trigger.  A single plasma shell lanced out, impacting on a nearby tree before the other six members of the front team leveled their carbines and opened fire, blasting the trees with slugs.

[Arminius H O Fiddywinks]

Sandor and Korben immediately took to their defensive postures, standing in front of Bohdan and Elizabeth.

"That's not necessary, guys," Elizabeth said, taking off her shades.

"Are you sure?" asked Sandor, his eyes squinting at some of the swine in their way. His fiery eyes darted between the hogs, and he was indecisive as to who to shoot at first. Korben, his eyes behind his sunglasses, analyzed the situation. Elizabeth's ears twitched as the tension in the bar became higher and higher with each passing second.

"Gentlemen," Bohdan began, outstretching his wings slightly and approaching them, his towering height blocking the light from one of the dim light bulbs on the ceiling, "we do not need to resolve this with violence." The hulking dragon, though an intimidating sight, was not keen on shooting these hogs. However, his subordinates were more than ready to do so.

[Shmibli7]

The tell-tale sound of a revolver's hammer being pulled sounded throughout the bar. From the door, Nerano held his weapon, positioning it at the lead biker.

"Now, now, gentlemen. The dragon is right. No need for escalation. Now, please, enjoy your drinks and leave these fine patrons to themselves."

[Clearwater]

Sal and Spector let a few seconds pass in silence as they waited to see who would make the first move. They were in a good hiding position right now, and didn't want to give it away by firing the opening shot. What to do, what to do...

''Psst!'' Spector hissed. Sal turned to him, who was pointing up to a nearby tree. Sal followed his gaze and noticed a hornet's nest, positioned directly above where his attackers were. A smug grin formed on his face. Sal turned back to Spector and withdrawed his knife. Spector took out a flashbang grenade at the same time.

On three, Sal mouthed. One... Two... Three!

At the same time, Sal hurled his knife into the tiny branch only just supporting the hornet's nest while Spector threw the flashbang out.

[Makori]

Kurtis Pub

 

Turf conflicts came and went.  This territory was technically the Road Hawgs’ but Kurtis Pub was usually seen as neutral ground between the gangs of the area.  Usually.  But Boss Hawg had just resolved a nasty gang war against the Gutter Vipers, pushing them out of half of their property, and he felt like waving the flag on hard-won ground bordering their usual Westrick home.  But the introduction of these four, plus the one with the handcannon in the door who had just stepped in, gave him pause.

Silently, Clyde stood from the bar, pumping his scattergun and letting the audible whine of its powercell charging do the talking for him as he leveled the weapon at the table, narrowing his eyes under his green service cap.

Fortunately, before anymore words were exchanged, things we settled for them.

“Reggie Dengar…one would think ‘Boss Hawg’ would be out flaunting his victory, not uselessly threatening mercenaries in a bar he does not own,” said a sultry voice from the door.  In behind those freelancers he had indeed hired stepped a jaguar, accompanied by at least a dozen associates, all large and all visibly armed.  The jaguar’s green eyes flitted between the six freelancers before settling coolly on the table occupied by the rival crew.

“Reggie, I have business to attend to here.  Kindly show yourself out before I have to pay Mister Gustav for the damage done to his establishment.  I’d hate to see how many credits it takes to remove blood from original wood flooring.”

Behind the jaguar, a massive Bison snorted, his frame rippling as he slammed a fist into an open hand.  The meaty impact made enough noise to hint that those titanium knuckles he wore may have been all the weapon he needed.  Behind him, the other dozen bodyguards (a mix of coyotes, badgers and an alligator) leveled their blaster pistols, energy cells whining.

The bar was silent as the grave for a few seconds.

Then, the cousin of the late Pigma Dengar snorted, shaking his mangy head before jerking it at his men.  “C’mon, boys!  Let’s leave it to ‘em!  This pub’s gone to hell anyway.”

With much snorting and clamoring, the other Hawgs stood, tipping over chairs and shouldering by the mercenaries and Cartel members on their way out the swinging doors.  A minute later, the sound of a dozen grav-bikes roared outside, steadily fading as the Hawgs went home.

The jaguar stepped forward, casually picking up a tipped over chair before gesturing to the table.

“Pardon me for the rude introduction.  I specifically chose this establishment for its casual location.  Mister Gustav, I assume the VIP room is open?”

“Just upstairs, Don Torres.”

Graciano Albinio Torres, leader of the Torres Cartel (one of the largest criminal groups on post-war Zoness), gestured to the stairs.

“If you are responding to the summons for the contract, I invite you to come meet with me in private.  We can settle down to business.”

It was only a short walk upstairs, to a meeting room which, while better decorated with stylish furniture and less clutter as well as full lights, was hardly in better condition than the dive bar downstairs.  Don Torres moved to a nearby armchair, taking the seat as the Bison, his right-hand man Alvarez, stood in the corner of the room, taking up a fifth of the space himself.  The other Cartel members took up position in the hallway outside.

Torres pulled a box of cigars out of his jacket, snipping the tip before he stuck it between his lips.  While he had just turned fifty, Torres exuded refinement as a fine wine; better with age.  However, there was also that air of danger hanging off of him, despite the gray that had struck lines across his black hair, slicked back over his head.  His clothes, of course, screamed wealth, as did the weapons and body armor his men wore.  But as he took a few puffs, he seemed nothing more than accommodating as he inhaled, then exhaled a cloud.

“A shame, this.  The wars have taken such a toll on Aquas and Zoness, I’ve had to start investing in the tobacco plantations on Sauria.  A good prospect to be sure, but new.  And therefore risky.  Please, sit down.  All of you.  I am certain you would like to hear of the job I have planned.”

There were indeed enough seats through armchairs and wooden table chairs that the mercenaries would all be able to sit, and the jaguar gestured after all had been seated.

“Firstly, I assume you all know who I am, but just in case, I am Don Torres.  I am wealthy, powerful and most importantly ambitious.  To that end, I am employing all of you to do what my men cannot.  But before I go into the details, I would like to make sure I am hiring the correct kind of crowd.  So please, introduce yourselves.”

After a brief moment, Clyde shifted off his seat on the edge of the group.

“Call me Busche.  Demolitions and assault specialist.  I served in the Lylat Wars and the Aparoid Invasion, that should be enough of a resume.”

 

 

Fortuna

Just as the flank team was about to make the strike, they were hit.  The flashbang detonated, causing the three VIG soldiers to stumble and lash out, one of them hosing the surrounding jungle with her weapon madly, trying to find whoever had done this to her.  And with that, the careful flank maneuver fell apart into a group of conscripts scrambling for cover.

Meanwhile, the Komodo Sergeant hissed in irritation about to order a head-on assault when, abruptly, the hornet’s nest fell in front of the main team.  Fortunan hornets were, by their nature, far more aggressive and vicious than their Cornerian counterparts.  So as soon as the nest impacted, the cloud that followed wasted no time attacking the VIG conscripts they found.  Jungle fatigues proved next to no defense against the stings of the infuriated insects, and the conscripts had left their flak-weave body armor at base due to the humidity, though they still would have been of little use.  The lizards and ape howled and screamed as the venom sunk into their veins.  Even the Komodo was mildly irritated, though his skin was thick enough to ward off the worst of it.  Hissing, he snapped at the wasps, leveling his blaster pistol and firing off a pair of shots at the two macaws.

“Regroup!  Damn it all, they’re just bugs, get back in formation you pathetic ingrates!”

Despite all that, the conscripts could do little but fire wildly in the general direction they were supposed to be assaulting.

[Shmibli7]

A slightly concieted smile formed on Nerano's face as the bikers left... And then immediately left with the inclusion of the jaguar and the men who followed him.

It was too many people. He was an assassin, not a soldier. If anything happened, the six magnum rounds his revolver held would be all but useless what with the sea of subcompact pistols coming into play with the private army who came traipsing in the door.

Nerano didn't trust people, they were the reason he ended up the way he did. 

As a child, Nerano grew up in a Venomian controlled sector of Fortuna. When he was a child, he took liking to one of the soldiers who patrolled the village where he lived: another lizard by the name of Dae. 

Nerano and Dae formed a bond fast and the two became inseparable. Every day, Dae and Rakon would go about the patrol route Dae was in charge of, the two talking along the way. Nerano's young mind had no idea that Dae was a member of an oppressive regime and Dae's ignorant mind led him to believe he was doing a service to the galaxy.

Then came the night Dae came to his family's modest house, begging for shelter. He had realized the horrors he had caused and had defected. Nerano's family took him in but it was of no use. Members of the Venomian military forced the door and tore through young Rakon's house. Angered that they could not find Dae, they told Nerano's parents  to drop to their knees and drew their sidearms.

Dae, overcome with guilt, came from his hiding place with his weapon drawn, firing at the soldiers threatening to kill Rakon.

Dae fought fiercely. However, a lucky shot from a blaster pistol hit him in the chest, killing him instantly. The soldier who fired it then turned back to Nerano's parents and killed them both. He then looked at Rakon, chuckled, and took him to the nearest military compound.

For eight years, he trained in clandestine combat and in twelve, he became Venom's premier assassin. He worked up a reputation that Andross himself contracted him for a very special mission. Kill Fox McCloud.

That night should have gone like any other job. Silenced low caliber blaster pistol, force the door, empty your clip into him, and leave before anyone notices he's not where he should be.

But it was different when he came to the door of the hotel room McCloud was staying in that night, that he felt different about killing him. Unlike his other hits, he had read Fox's file, not the nationalistic propaganda he usually was handed. He felt uneasy about the task at hand, but went through with it.

McCloud was already waiting for him as he forced the door. The two traded fire with the other, each dodging the fire of their opponent. Nerano shattered the large window at the back of the room when he discharged the final round in his weapon. Angrily, he threw it down and began to engage Fox in hand to hand combat. This raged for half an hour as the two let out a fury of blows and blocks until Fox swept Nerano's leg, slamming him on the hotel room floor. He then took Nerano by the leg and led him over to the now broken window. He held him over the thirteen story drop and questioned him. Nerano told all. Dae, the Venomian soldier, the training, the indoctrination,  and the contract.

Expecting to be dropped, Nerano prepared to fall. 

But, contrary to what he expected, Fox threw him back into the room.

Fox held him at gunpoint as he called the secure line for the CSS. Members then arrested Nerano and interrogated him for weeks.

Eventually, a deal was struck. Nerano would render the skill he used for Venom for the Cornerian government instead. That is why he was here. He was to do whatever the employer said...And then, when close enough,  kill him.

He holsters the weapon and waits. The employer would be with him in a moment.

[Arminius H O Fiddywinks]

"Crime..." said Bohdan in his famously thick Ruthenian Polan accent, looking around the ramshackle, yet lavishly decorated office. He found a big enough armchair to accommodate him, and he sat down as he began his sentence. "I am no particular fan of the organized variety. However, when one needs coin, one resorts to desperate acts. My friends and I are, what is the phrase?"

"In the red," answered Elizabeth, sitting on the arm of the chair Bohdan had placed himself in.

"Ah yes, in the red. I am sorry, but I am still rather unfamiliar with much of your Lylat phrases."

Now, it seemed that Bohdan's apparel betrayed him when he described the penury state his team was in. His golden and red Ogniemite medallion hanging around his neck, the size of a hockey puck, was an apparent statement of wealth, and the source of many fights. However, he made it a point to dress more casually and commonly, as his white and red biker jacket (with a custom fitted red hood draping his head), worn dark blue jeans, scuffled boots, and faded gray t-shirt testified. He was also a target for only the very daring or the very foolish, since he had his Lech Mk. III hand blaster in his holster to his right and his 1 meter long bastard sword in its scabbard on his left. Bohdan was indeed well armed, a testament to his time in the Ruthenian Imperial Army.

What could be said about Bohdan Chmielnicki that has not been said in the news, novels, films, television, and other forms of media within his home empire? War veteran, war hero, war criminal. He has been called many things, but all he calls himself is a simple priest. His time and renown serving a distant Czar in a distant empire has leaked into the Lylat System over the course of twenty years, but Bohdan is still relatively unknown to most of the denizens of the Lylat System. He wants to keep it that way.

A century of his life has been dedicated to fighting for various purposes. For God. For the Czar. For freedom. For Corneria. For coin. A complex individual with an even more complex, and tragic past, Bohdan has surrounded himself with very few, yet very loyal friends, and a network of associates found nearly everywhere. But, as he has rarely ventured to Zoness, he has almost no connections here, save for another mercenary team on the other side of the world.

 

Elizabeth Morion, the husky woman with the piercing blue eyes and black and white apparel sitting beside Bohdan Chmielnicki, was his second in command in the team, and an expert sharpshooter. Trained by Corneria's best, the Black Guards, Elizabeth is one of the deadliest women in the entire System. Her clothing also reminded those informed of her time in the Guards. Black leather jacket, white shirt, dog tags around her neck, black fingerless gloves, black combat fatigues, black combat boots, shades grasping onto her shirt collar. Seeing as how any large weapon would be cumbersome to use in the bar, she left her sniper rifle in the team's secured vehicle outside, and carried inside two S&B (Saunders and Blackburn) semi-automatic blaster pistols - standard issue in Cornerian Special Forces, specifically the Black Guards, who commissioned S&B to develop and manufacture handguns specifically for them.

Elizabeth uses her former husband's surname, Morion, rather than her maiden name, Graham, on most occasions, such as her driver's license and passport. She even kept both of their wedding rings, although she keeps them in a special box in her quarters on the team's ship. Elizabeth looks at her boss with a strange mixture of obedience, brotherhood and hostility. The two of them try to live in relative harmony, but sometimes this harmony is shattered.

 

Sandor Kalocsai, the "bird-dog thing", as he was called harshly by his fellow classmates a few years ago. Sandor now, however, takes that name in stride, and is even flattered by the insult, stating that it is actually an accurate description of his people. Him and his people, the Magyars, do look like bird-dog things: canine-like snouts, feathers, avian-like feet. Magyar ears, however, with male ears standing tall and female ears drooping behind their heads, are totally unique, and defy definition.

Out of all of the team, Sandor looks the most unkempt, dresses the most plainly (and poorly), and his demeanor is the crudest of them all. His apparel of today when meeting this neatly garbed crime lord was as simple as can be: dark red v-neck t-shirt, ragged black jeans, old gray and white sneakers. The only opulent part of his clothing was a gold Ogniemite orange and red colored medallion, similar to Bohdan's. He carried with him a fully automatic side blaster, the Somogy-19, with a 35 round magazine and a fire rate of 800 plasma shells per minute. He also has two more concealed pistols and his trusty kitchen knife taped to his leg. Why a kitchen knife, you may ask? It is the tool he used on his first kill, plus he is most familiar with it.

Sandor, growing up in an impoverished environment, disliked the wealthy, envying their lifestyle. He hungered for their big mansions, their fancy cars, their latest gadgets, the food they could buy. This is why he holds no amiable feelings towards the fourth member of Bohdan's team: Korben Dallas.

 

Dallas Pharmaceuticals. Korben was raised in the oligarchic family that founded and controlled this massive pill-making corporation. As a result of his lavish upbringing, Korben dressed neatly and finely, wearing a clean, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a black tie, a black vest, black dress pants, and black shoes, all custom fitted to Korben by specialized tailors in Corneria City. A golden Rolex watch also adorned his wrist. But one must not mistake Korben's privileged looks as a sign of weakness. He is a man who heard the calling of his nation, and was specially chosen and molded by the Black Guards, the same special forces group that trained Elizabeth. As a medic formerly in the Guards, Korben could break you, fix you, and then break you once more. His uncommon blaster sidearm, a Van der Sloop, was powerful and compact, and sat comfortably in Korben's shoulder holster.

 

The team introduced themselves, as per Don Torres's request.

"My name is Bohdan Chmielnicki. You may call me Theodore."

"I'm Elizabeth Morion. I'm a damn good sniper."

"My name's Sandor. Sandor Kalocsai. I've stolen many things, and killed many people in my ventures to steal said things."

Now, Korben Dallas was not a big talker, as he rarely spoke, even when spoken to. To introduce himself, the sharply dressed and well built beaver took out a business card from his left breast pocket on his vest, and gently put it down on Don Torres's desk in front of the crime lord. It read, "Korben Dallas, MD. Certified by the Barbarossa Military Academy. Fees vary." A telephone number was below this wording, which led to his work cell. On the back, should one place the card under a UV-A light, is more wording, saying "If you have a problem that needs taking care of, call this number." A number, which also requires UV-A light to be revealed, connects to a fixer working for Korben. This number is for more... dirty business only.

"As you can see," continued Bohdan, leaning forward, "we are professionals."

[Shmibli7]

After downing a drink at the bar counter, Nerano decided that he should go meet the employer. He took the same path up the stairs as everyone else had and opened the door. The four who stood against the bikers were there as well as some of the heavily armed mercs who had followed the jaguar in.

His calculating mind started sizing all of them up as he looked at them. Most of them were easy to read. Typical hitman material. Only a select few crossed over into Rakon's definition of assassin. The difference, to Nerano, was sophistication. A hitman was simply a hired killer. Low rent. Unprofessional.

An assassin was a person of deadly class, of feared power, and of respected results. A man or woman who carried themselves in a way that subconsciously screamed that they were masters of their craft: Death. Dress was usually an indication. However, in this case, it was rendered all but useless seeing as most of the hopeful gunslingers were dressed to be inconspicuous. The only one he could tell by their apparel knew their business was the beaver.

No matter. Nerano thought, Time for step two. 

Posture. The way the hopefuls stood. It indicated either pride... Or proven confidence in one's exploits. A few of the others had it but he couldn't be sure.

As he stepped through the door, he spoke.

"This is where the hiring is going on, correct? Or is this simply a testosterone competition?"

[Arminius H O Fiddywinks]

Korben turned his head, and then the rest of his body, to face this new character. A lizard. Korben's sunglasses analyzed this curious figure, and they came up with something very interesting. Rakon Nerano, a Fortunan assassin formerly employed by Venom, now working for Corneria's Secret Service. He tilted his head curiously, silently, stoically. Elizabeth looked at Korben, wondering why he was acting so strange. She then looked back to find the lizard standing in front of the door. She looked back to Korben.

"Who's the dude?" asked Elizabeth. Bohdan and Sandor turned to find the lizard still standing there.

"Nerano," answered Korben.

"Bless you," said Sandor somewhat comically.

"May we continue this, people?" inquired Bohdan rhetorically, hoping that all present would agree with him. "After all, a handsome paycheck is in the near future, if we can just keep talking about our business at hand."

[Shmibli7]

Nerano was surprised. His job was to be invisible. How did this man know who he was? He had to be from the Cornerian interior... Or one of his former Venomian handlers.

He hoped it was the former. If Venom caught up with him, they would do all they could, even after Andross' s death. A lot of sociests loved the ape's manifesto.

If the beaver was part the Cornerian system, he could only wonder how he knew seemed to know Nerano. His file was only open to his handler, a few members of Interplanetary Intelligence... And the Black Guard. That was it. He suddenly remebered the beaver as Korben Dallas... Although, he had forgotten how he knew that. Had they met on a mission? He had worked in conjunction with the Black Guard once, maybe that was how.

Either way, it put Nerano more at ease. He slipped into a more relaxed pose as he looked toward the employer.

[Clearwater]

As Sal and Spector braced themselves for the loud bang that was to come, Sal noticed that the way some of their attackers were being treated by their superiors wasn't very respectful. He had to feel sorry for them, but had no time to when the flashbang went off and he had to take cover.

''Let's get the hell outta here,'' Spector shouted over the noise as he turned tail and ran. Sal paused a few seconds to look back at the poor stragglers who had no combat experience of any kind, then followed the trail Spector blazed before either of them got shot.

Sal caught up to Spector up the path.

''Close call, don't you think?'' Sal asked his friend.

''No doubt about that. But... Why come after us? We're just two birds minding our own in the middle of a vast jungle...''

''I haven't a clue either. But the more distance we can put between us and them for now, the better.''

Spector nodded. Although some of their attackers were clearly inexperienced, they were still outnumbered, and the macaw didn't exactly fancy his chances. A few minutes passed in silence, before Sal groaned in disgust.

''I get the feeling we're going in circles. Plus, it's getting dark.'' He quipped. ''There's no way we're getting out of this mess on our own. Plus, we're hundreds of miles from any nearby city.''

''Well, what'd you reckon we should do?'' Spector asked. Sal turned his back on him and turned on his headset. Maybe if he could tap out an SOS signal on the distress frequency...

''We need to hide while I try and patch something through.'' Sal explained. ''Let's find a nearby cave or something and hole up for the night.''

''Are... You sure about this?''

''Truthfully...'' Sal's facial expression changed to one of concern. ''...No. But it's the only option we have right now.''

[Makori]

“Enough,” Torres said, coolly.  It wasn’t a demand, it wasn’t an order.  It was simply a statement, laced with authority.  He reached up, taking a lazy, long pull on his cigar before letting it out in a slow stream of hazy smoke.  “I’ve heard all I need to know.  It is clear that we have the right men.”  He gestured to Alvarez, who wordlessly moved towards the door.  A single muscular arm picked up a steel beam, slamming it into the purpose-built hooks before the bison took up position in front of the door.  No one was getting in.  Or out.

“Now.  The job.”  Torres shifted, swapping legs as one crossed over the other, folding like a piece of ornamental folded paper.  “Given your skills, I of course need you for a suitably challenging task.  My men, loyal and committed as they are, know nothing of jungle survival.  Fortuna is where you’ll be going, deep into the rainforest.”  The mob boss shifted, coughing more to clear his throat than because of the cigar.  “Back before the Aparoids came, the Cornerian Defense Force set up several covert Military Intelligence observation bases across the Lylat System to keep tabs on the local planets and watch out for Venom stirring again.  Seeing how they were already concealed, some enterprising officer in MI decided to stash a few…unsavory projects away.  Some of them were bioweapon containment facilities, meant to study and eventually dispose of the many samples left behind by the VIG Black Guard, creatures meant to serve as living WMDs.  These I have no interest in.  Others have taken on the studying of technology and weapons that cannot be mentioned.  Like the Aparoids.”  Here, Torres’ eyes narrowed slightly, his pupils like pinpricks in green marbles.  “This is more in keeping with my tastes.  On Fortuna, one facility in particular was shipping out a batch of a particular substance when the shuttle in question experienced engine trouble and touched down in the jungle.  That part of the continent is firmly in control of the Venomian Remnants.  Oikonny’s Rebels.  The CDF were most certainly optimistic when they predicted the destruction of their man base would kill them all off.”  Torres took another lazy pull, holding the smoke in before he let it out once more.  “From what I’ve heard back, the shuttle wreck is still there.  The rebels don’t know what they’ve got in their territory, and the Cornerians can’t get close without either burning away a mile of brush or fighting a bush war to get it.”  He paused here, likely more for dramatic purpose than any other, and started with a sense of finality.  “For the safe recovery of this shuttle’s cargo, I am willing to offer at least two-hundred and fifty thousand credits a head, plus expenses for transport.  This should tell you all just how much I desire that cargo…and what will happen if I do not receive it.  You have the job, and I have a ship ready to take you to Fortuna.  All I need is for you all to accept.  Do you have any questions?”

Busch coughed near the back, stepping forwards.  “You said Fortuna.  That means mostly jungle warfare.  We going to get some gear to get through that?”

Torres nodded firmly.  “I have already chosen several elements from my own armory to include aboard your vessel, and I hope you make wise use of them.  Feel free to hold on to them for as long as you like.  I’ll collect after the job is done.”

 

 

Fortuna

The ambush failed and the pursuit over with, the rebels retreated to their own firebase, hidden deep in the jungles.  The Venomian Remnants had used their time wisely, deciding to bury their new bases into the actual mountains themselves, learning from when Star Fox and the CDF Navy had demolished their last stand at a full military deployment.  Now, they had slipped into the shadows.  Without a fleet or full banks of interceptors, they had to instead rely on simply being a thorn the Cornerians could not get rid of.

Hunter killer teams like the squad that had just returned were essential.  The locals hadn’t wanted them there either, and as such a war of extermination on the natives and any other colonists found out in the jungle not bearing Andross’ colors was essential to allow free movement through the lands, preparing for the inevitable day when Corneria would return to reclaim the planet.

But a sizeable detachment had already been split off to secure a crash site.  A place of great interest to the rebels, for it had taken off from a CDF outpost, heading out of orbit.  It was a cargo hauler, so what would they be taking –away- from a hidden observation post?

All anyone knew was that the Remnants’ leader, General Armand formerly of the VIG Marine Corps, wanted that cargo with all due haste and importance.  And so, dozens of squads had been mustered, conscripts and veterans both, to go and retrieve the package as soon as they found the site.

[Shmibli7]

Nerano smiled. Fortuna, his homeland. He knew it well. These other men didn't have the experience he did.

"I accept." He said . "But this mission is completely third-party, yes?"

[Arminius H O Fiddywinks]

Bohdan nodded as he laid back on his chair. Korben turned back towards Torres. Sandor leaned against a wall.

"The last time I recall a criminal organization having any sort of WMD in its disposal," Bohdan began, "they sold it to the terrorist group Armijos Dangaus, who used it on the city of Siauliai. 112,000 people died."

"It was a genetically modified form of Yersinia Pestis," added Elizabeth.

"Plague," explained Sandor bluntly. "They developed a cure for it a few weeks later, but by then the city was almost dead."

Bohdan leaned in. "I trust you will not sell this weapon to groups like Armijos Dangaus?"

[Clearwater]

Fortuna Jungles, 01:45 Local Time

Spector woke with a start, a mosquito disturbing his peaceful sleep. He grunted and slapped it away, before nursing to the bite. Damn bugs, he thought. He and Sal had holed up in a small cave for the night, the location of it being very hard to see should they ever still be tailed. They were still paranoid about what was going on. Why were these... soliders after them? Had they trespassed? If so, then they would've issued some sort of warning. No, they must be something hiding here.

Spector turned to see Sal sleeping peacefully.

''Enjoy all the rest, why don't you,'' He muttered under his breath, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a few berries he had plucked during his travels. After examining them, he concluded they were perfectly safe to eat, so he went ahead and plopped one into his beak.

Blagh!

Spector spat it out. Bitter as hell. Then something else caught his attention. A beeping coming from his wave receiver. Spector pulled it out. The beeping was very slow and quiet, but showed some sort of beacon being picked up a few dozen miles west of where they currently were.

What the...

Spector went over to Sal and gently kicked him a couple of times.

''Hmm... What...'' Sal murmered, feeling really groggy.

''Wake up amigo. You need to look at this.''

Sal took his time trying to get up, but he eventually was able to stand up. Spector shoved the receiver into his face.

''Is that a... Where'd you get that?''

''Old equipment I had from when I was serving under Tovan.'' He explained. Sal took it from him and looked at it.

''A signal?''

''It's coming west from here,'' Spector explained. ''Someone's got a beacon activated, or a distress signal, or something...''

''It might be a trap though.'' Sal said, passing the receiver back to him and walking past him outside. ''I've had experiences with these more than you. You're better with strategic thinking, I'm more or less the scout.''

''Shall we, erm...''

''Not right now. I get the feeling they're waiting for us. Plus I'm getting nowhere with the distress call I'm trying to send out.''

Spector sighed and went to sit back down, fiddling with the reciever. Sal went back inside and crossed his wings, before deciding to do some quick exercise in the form of push-ups.

[Makori]

“Firstly, no one but myself will profit from this cargo.  I am a businessman, not a terrorist.  It does me no good to wave to the world that I possess WMDs, merely my enemies.”  Torres glanced at his cigar, considering the short length before he casually set it in an ashtray, fixing the mercenaries with his harsh gaze.  “And yes, this is a one hundred percent third-party job.  I will not kowtow to Cornerian oversight nor to Venomian intimidation.  If you see either one on Fortuna, know that none are friendly.  The Remnants will execute anyone in their territory and the CDF has declared the area a restricted zone, subject to immediate arrest.  Already there are elements of both moving to secure the crash site, and it will remain unattended only a short time.”  He glanced around at them all before standing, tugging at his cuffs.  “I am putting my trust in you all.  After you leave the planet, I have set up a shell account with the first twenty-thousand credits each as a forward pay.  Consider it an incentive.  The data will be on the ship, which you will find at the city spaceport, docking bay seventeen.”  Torres moved towards the door, pausing as his bodyguard removed the barricade before the mob boss turned to regard his new employees.  “Bear in mind…I expect to hear from you again inside of a week.  Whether reclaimed from the planet or reclaimed from a Remnant base or CDF cruiser, I care not.  But if the package is destroyed or you fail to locate it…not one of you return to Zoness.  And I will know if you return.”

With that, Torres took his leave, and his bodyguards went with him, tromping down the stairs to the lower level.  A roaring engine outside told of his vehicle pulling away, and then the mercenaries were left alone.

Clyde looked over his new business associates, sizing each of them up in his mind.  Though he’d only been in this line of work for a year, certain harsh lessons had taught him how to look for the deadliest contractor in a group.  And it often wasn’t the most obvious one.  The dragon-guy, he looked like he could bench a truck.  But that little lady in the back, she had the thousand yard stare like all she could see of him was the crosshairs settling on his chest.  The lizard in back was certainly a mystery, but Clyde could tell that was because he was used to staying in the background until the right time.

No, the one that scared him the most was the beaver.  Something about him just…didn’t sit right.  A palpable air of unnatural that seemed to soak the air around him.  Though he stood two full heads higher, Clyde Busch could honestly say he was afraid of this unknown quantity…

Regardless, he shook himself before he glanced around.  “Anyone got an inspiring speech before we set off on this suicide mission?”

 

 

Fortuna

Even as the Remnants moved their rebel forces out to take the crash site, the jungle suddenly lit up once more as they met contacts.  These, however, were no mere natives to be slaughtered off.

As another Ogre mech teetered over, a smoking hole in its ‘chest’, the husky in heavy armor who’d fired the killing shot brought the plasma cannon down, scanning for additional targets.  Nearby, two other Heavies scanned the area with their gatling guns, already surrounded by the smoking wrecks of destroyed foliage.

“Clear!” yelled a Ranger behind the trio, and the six or so others moved up quickly out of the trees, followed by the four-legged camouflaged bulk of the Mule walker behind them, forcing the natural barricades aside.  Designed specifically for combat in rough terrain like jungles and mountains, the Mule was fitted with multiple gatlings and a single turret mounted plasma cannon, providing some much needed armor support to this Ranger team.

By sheer luck, the same squad of conscripts who had run into the two macaws earlier in the day stumbled across the Rangers as well, following after the mechs they were supposed to be covered by.  The exchange, as expected, did not go as they had planned, while Hacksaw Squad went to work.

CDF Rangers always got the mission done, after all.

[Shmibli7]

"No." Nerano said. "Do you? Or can we get on with this?"

The assassin mused at his new handler. He knew the game he was playing as his eyes surveyed himself and the others. 

Now, what are you? He thought, trying to figure Clyde out before talking again.

[Makori]

"I gave up on that a long time ago.  Let's just get this over with."

Clyde Busch may no longer have been a sergeant, or a Ranger, but two decades of campaigning and combat experience just don't go away.  He was rigid, his hands idly clasping into fists.  Though not the biggest in the room (the dragon had that honor by about half a foot) Clyde was wide in the shoulders and chest, though slim enough that at least his clothes didn't seem constricting.

He wore a basic white T-shirt under a common brand carapace plate combat vest, beneath a black leather field jacket, tan cargo pants and black combat boots, topped off by an old blue patrol cap emblazoned with the white star and crossed rifles of the CDF Army Rangers (some things never changed, after all).  He had the look of any freelance gun for hire across the Lylat sector, a relative newbie to the field of private warfare.

Busch glanced around at the group, his gaze watchful if cynical and lacking trust.  That was also lost near the end of his service, mostly by watching his brothers and sisters dying in a trench next to him on the Aparoid homeworld.  He matched gaze with Nerano, narrowing his eyes at the assassin.  In those mismatched irises, all the lizard would find would be a steel edge, as Clyde narrowed in on an old enemy.

[Arminius H O Fiddywinks]

Bohdan sighed, rubbing his hands together. He got up from his chair. Elizabeth dismounted from the chair's armrest. Sandor stood up straight, leaving the comfort of the moldy, discolored wall.

"Money is not everything, my coworkers," said Bohdan to Clyde and Nerano. "Those who kill together become brothers and sisters. Not by blood, but by bond. You two will recognize this soon enough." Bohdan left the room, descending the stairs. His party followed him. Korben was the last to leave, tilting his head slightly while looking at both Clyde and Nerano. He walked out slowly, his black loafers clacking along the way.