The Lylat Wars- Combat Evolved

Prologue

Demon Dreams

"...He's a legend in his own mind."

Fox McCloud tossed and turned in the grips of a terrible dream. His hands gripped the sheets in throes of fury, as sweat pooled around his body, his face contorted in an almost caricatured expression of sadness and anger.

"...James McCloud was an idealistic old fool. His notions of peace and justice lead him to destroy half the known universe..."

Fox turned over once again coughing and spitting. His stomach churned with all the irregularity of a water ship's bow. He was sick, drunk, and strung out. His nights had gone from celebrations of peace to heroin fueled dives into the dregs of society. The money he'd made protecting the world and everyone in it from the evils of Andross and the Venomian Army was all but gone- squandered away on more Vulpine prostitutes than anyone could count and even more fuel for his terrible addiction. Fox McCloud was a shadow of his former self. Sure, he'd taken jobs after the Lylat wars, but nothing paid as well. His old crew was all but gone, with only Peppy Hare sticking around- and even he was nearing retirement.

"... And a lot of good his kid's done us. He's killed nearly 200,000 innocents, 'ya know!"

The thoughts screamed through Fox's mind, unchecked by waking consciousness. Fox scrambled to his Arwing in no shape to be flying, fighting, or even walking. He jetted from the base he'd been stationed in, going on instinct- his commlink not even on. Several enemies reared up behind him. Sloppily Fox executed a back flip and came up behind them. He fired two missiles without checking his bearings. He'd done it hundreds of times before, always letting his intrinsic abilities take over. Careening forward one missile obliterated an enemy, but the other somehow missed. As it continued forward, at exceedingly high speeds, Fox noticed a civilian transport unit taking off. There wasn't any chance of it getting out of the way in time- he had to do something. In a heroin and alcohol fueled act of courage, one, had he been sober, wouldn't have even entered his mind, Fox boosted forward just underneath the missile, and without hesitation throttled up into what he thought was its direct path. He was off, by a mere micro-meter. His Arwing crashed directly into the underside of the transport vehicle. The tip of the nose punched through the thin floor and impaled several of the stunned passengers. Blood dripped onto Fox's windscreen as he jettisoned himself from the crash site. The last thing Fox saw before hitting the ground below him was the transport exploding in mid-air- spewing out passengers like a baby spits back unfavorable food and crashing to the ground in a mass of twisted metal. Everyone was dead. Fox knew it.

As Fox lay on the ground attempting to contemplate what had happened, and more importantly what part he'd had in it the smell of burning flesh and fur overwhelmed his senses. He vomited on himself and passed out.

In the end everyone held Fox responsible. The Lylat High War Council stripped Fox of his rank on the Cornerian Army- his accolades, his steady income, his life as he knew it was shattered do to one stupid mistake. Now he had to take "odd jobs" something he'd grown unaccustomed to over time. He had fully dedicated himself to being a "real" soldier, not a mercenary. He hadn't taken a paid job in years that wasn't provided by General Pepper.

However, as ever with Fox McCloud, he was determined, as a soldier for hire, to be the best damn soldier for hire he could be. That was the only way he could rise above the competition. Sure, he knew he had a solid reputation, but that couldn't keep him afloat forever. He had to prove his worth in a field of work that he'd been out of for years.

Even so, jobs were still slow to trickle in. Fox still got the occasional work, but most of it didn't pay well. His life was fragmented now, where once it had order. He hadn't realized how complacent he'd became, and he hated to admit it. Despite his protests to the contrary Fox's once free spirit seemed to be locked up somewhere. The rigors of the Cornerian Army, along with its attempts to sanitize war with its staunchy, stiff regulations had seen to that. The Cornerian Army didn't care for anyone who didn't

tow the company line. They wanted masterclass soldiers who would follow orders to the letter and know the soldier handbook backwards and forwards. Fox had given them Hell at first, his independent spirit fighting conformity, but soon he found himself doing and acting the way the army had wanted him to all along.

For the first time in his life, since before his father was killed he was happy and comfortable. Fox finally had a sense of being, a real true purpose to his soldiering. The stigma of being a "gun for hire" was no longer attached to him. Putting on his uniform, covered with medals and ribbons, given out to war heroes only of the highest order gave him hope for his own future.

But no more. Now Fox McCloud searched for one thing he couldn't buy on a Cornerian back alley; redemption. In his mind it wasn't even redemption for his alcoholism or his drug addiction. It was redemption from what he'd become. Fox, for the first time in his life, was actually embittered by the thought of living another day. Nothing gave him a thrill or made him happy anymore. Pushing eight (forty in human years) his body was falling apart. The weight he'd put on from the months of drug and alcohol abuse sickened him. He, at thirty-nine looked nearly forty-nine. And he felt it too. His stamina in flight had decreased greatly. He relied more on sheer firepower now than his own skills as a pilot. Fox looked, and more noticeably felt like shit.

Suddenly Fox was shocked from his unpleasant slumber by a large explosion. He crawled out of bed, head throbbing, eyes bloodshot searching for his pants.

"Lights at 10 percent." the lights in the room turned on at his command, dimly illuminating the room. Several bottles of cheap liquor sat open and empty on a small table next to Fox's bed.

Finding his pants crumpled on the floor Fox muttered to himself, "I really need a shower." before strolling out, the door whooshing open as he walked through it.

"Good afternoon Fox."

The sound of Rob 64's voice sent stings of pain through Fox's skull. "Not so damn loud."

"Sorry sir." Rob lowered his voice to a softer level, although Fox's head still tingled with slight pain.

"Rob, where's Peppy?"

"On the observation deck. He requests your presence immediately."

"I gotta catch a quick shower."

Fox stalked, sullen and discordant, towards the bathroom. The bright lights and stark, white hallways bringing nothing but pain to his throbbing head.

Fox was a shattered soldier. His life was shit. And it was about to get a whole lot worse.