Author's Notes: Welcome, please read and enjoy.

For those of you who don't know of the 99th Platoon, please do an author search for 'Gappap'. His fanfiction work will explain the platoon much better than I ever could. Plus, I owe him much, for forming the 99th Platoon and for finding me when I disappeared from said platoon.

The abridged version of the 99th Platoon, for those reluctant to read Gappap's stories: We are a group of people who create interactive fan fiction amongst ourselves, in the form of missions. Usually, one or two people begin the mission and loosely guide it along. However, we are an exclusive group. There are about 20 active members.

What does this mean to you? Well, I alone cannot take credit for this work. I have to thank: Sarge and Dark, for their amazing writing and the pleasure of co-authoring this mission with them. Oreos, Chael, Pyst, Stealth, Flatfeet, Mon, Coolguy, Ajax, Deja, Snickers, Blaze, Kay, Zeta and Serena for participating in this mission. And also, Ricy and Twisted, because although they didn't actually participate, they both form a small part of this mission.

And Rare for the awesome game known as Conker's Bad Fur Day.

Now that I've ranted, here's the first chapter. Please read and review.

-Thomas "WWW" C. Blight

Oh, and all characters are copyright their respective owners.

Chapter 1: Compromised Confidentiality

There are things far, far worse than death. Death is merely an escape from it all, and those who choose such over another, more difficult option, are the ones that should not have lived in the first place. They are simply useless, and they should be forced to carry on with the rougher road despite their fears. Weak. The mere idea of choosing death over pain sickens me, for pain is but weakness leaving the body. Once you've endured enough, what weakness do you have? Emotionally and physically, you're solid -- rock-like in stature. Nothing can deter you from any chosen course, and being such, you have power -- a power inconceivable to many.

I have been through unimaginable amounts of pain -- mental and physical -- that a lot of others would've simply crippled and buckled under. My parents, who I loathe and have loathed since my childhood, showed me the meaning of pain at a very young age. Since then, it has ruled my life. However, I met a brief session of relief when I stumbled into the courtroom and the judge allowed me a second chance at life; the army, and inevitably the 99th Platoon.

Albeit, at first, there were many members who I didn't get along with, and I'm sure they saw me as a bloodthirsty criminal who could offer nothing to the team but a chain reaction of reckless actions that would eventually lead to the demise of us all. How far from the truth that was, luckily, for through my actions and the actions of the others, we grew close -- family-like relationship-wise. We were brothers in arms, and we did, indeed, have a few women on the team. The name of one of them escapes me, but I fondly remember Rico's cousin, Deja. I remember speaking with her away from the rest of the men a few times, and she was-- no, I have to keep hope -- is a wonderful person. Unworthy, I was and am of her mere presence, for I am but a criminal.

But I digress.

Flashbacks. I have so many flashbacks. War. Bloodshed. Pain. Sorrow. All of it rushes back to me and hits me at night with such force that it is almost like taking a full-on punch to the gut. I awaken in a cold sweat, my muscles quaking. It isn't fear.. No, not fear, for I am not afraid of death.. Nor the inescapable fact that I have killed and undoubtedly will kill again.. But rather, I believe it is just a natural reaction when one returns from war. It doesn't really matter, though. I write this because my own death is about to be expedited with thousands of volts of electricity.. Not the way I wanted to go out, but inevitably the way I will.

Mm.. Here they come again -- the guards. They think they're tough just because they can beat up a prisoner in a four-on-one bash with weaponry. Funny. And the sound grows closer.. Billy clubs on steel bars.. A constant annoyance. It seems that they're going to make a pit stop at my cell... This should be interesting.."

The incessant ringing of the clubs on the bars halted at the darkest cell on the block. It was nearly impossible to see into the shadows, but it was said that the prisoner the cell housed could see anyone outside his cell perfectly -- in light or in pitch black darkness. Four guards stood outside the cell, and one of them slid a key into a small slot upon a rectangular portion of the cell door. He removed the key, stashing it into one of the pockets upon his vest, and slid the door open, pulling up his riot shield. They advanced.

Four enter..

It was a mixture of cracks and horrible screams. The tearing of flesh and the moans of pain. A loud roar made the walls rumble as one of the unfortunate four guards was launched out of the darkness, landing in a rather odd position upon the railing. He was practically split in two upon the steel handrail, bent, for all intents and purposes, the whole way around it. Blood trickled down from inside his mouth, losing its battle to gravity and falling down to the lower levels of the prison, landing with a light splash upon the concrete floor.

Two more guards flew from the cell, but they didn't hit the guard rail. Instead, they slid just beneath it, their limp corpses plummeting downwards to the ground floor. Two sickening thuds signified their imminent death… That is, if they weren't dead upon exiting the cell. It was more probable that they were due to the large gashes upon their backs and such. Blood flowed from the wounds profusely, melding in with the already-large pool of blood that had formed just from the fall. Bones lay beside the corpses, fragmented.

The inmate, a former soldier known only by his code name of "Dark," emerged from the cell, blood dripping from his mouth and hands. His fingers were wrapped tightly about the throat of the last of the guards, who was struggling in vain to free himself from the grasp of the monstrosity. As said before, his attempts were in vain. Cheers met the panther as he let the guard stand by his own free will, releasing him. However, when the guard went to run, Dark lunged forward, bringing his fist around in a right-cross-like-manner and meeting solidly with the jaw of the squirrel. Its head twisted practically the whole way around, a sickening crack emitting from the base of its neck. The guard slumped to the ground, indefinitely another victim.

None leave... Alive...

The fugitive slinked through the forest with instinctual grace. He had been running for several hours now. Not running away from any would-be assailants, though. The fugitive, the warrior, knew his place in the world and knew it was not rotting in that jail cell. He was now approaching the city. Windy, skyscrapers towering, apartment buildings everywhere and sprawling suburbs as far as the eye can see. The place that was his home, although the stranger was never home. Dark was ever the stranger, always unable to relax. No, unable wasn't the word. Unwilling. He had faced the consequences of thinking he was safe. He would not make the mistake again.

The shadow crept out of the forest and into an alley. He made his way, quickly but stealthily, down a path he once frequented. Once upon a time, he had taken this path, once upon a time. It seemed so long ago, although he couldn't deny that it was only as little as six months since he had last tread this path.

He proceeded to the door of a run-down house. The classic model '89 Squirrelac army green convertible parked in the driveway was dirty and smelt. The man who owned it was obviously in turmoil. Dark remembered the owner of the house treating that car like his own child. Amazing how much has changed.

Dark's knuckles rapped on the door three times. The door opened and a shotgun barrel poked Dark in the chest. The squirrel that opened the door was big, about as big as Dark. He was wearing standard army attire with dozens of metals pinned to the chest. His clothes were torn and buttons were missing. The cuffs were virtually non-existent. He looked like he had been wearing the same thing for over 10 years. Dark looked up at his face. The squirrel's face was heavily wrinkled around the eyes and mouth. He looked like he hadn't shaved in a month. Overall, the squirrel looked like he had aged ten years since Dark last saw him, though Dark knew it to be six months since they last met. Dark suddenly realized how much being shut down and forced into society had affected all of them. It had only been six months, but the mighty had fallen gracelessly in that short time.

"We need to talk," The squirrel said. His voice was hoarse.
"Indeed," Dark replied. They entered the house.

Windy was a beautiful city, and it was one of the safer places. Squirrels of all shapes and sizes and occasionally panthers and other species took refuge in the city, finding well-paying jobs in the various buildings lining the streets and starting families -- just generally living happily. They knew not what kept them safe, however, for a scenario was never presented to them in which they would have learned the identity of the mysterious unit that saved their lives countless times and kept them distanced from any sort of peril. The vast majority of Windy's inhabitants believed -- truly believed! -- that the force that kept them safe and allowed for them to go about their lives unobstructed was Conker himself. At one point, such would have been true. However, the legendary squirrel enlisted quite a bit of help since the fateful day he became King, and that help was unknown to most regions of the world, let alone the city of Windy…

Unfortunately, the large amount of secrecy and precautions taken to keep these individuals out of the public eye had been compromised. Trusted aid to Conker, Arkaine, had gone to a meeting with the media, and he had attempted to cover for the secret organization known only as the 99th Platoon, but he had failed miserably. Not only had he failed, but he had accidentally released the number of the unit to the public, thus compromising the whole operation.. An operation that dated back years and many, many successful operations. The 99th Platoon had put down Tediz uprisings over and over again, and they had stopped various other means of world destruction. They were taken deeper into the Agency, and their identities were erased… But that had all been compromised, and the whole operation would have to be shut down... A tragedy of tragedies.

That tragedy was what had the squirrel of great stature and the ex-con panther sitting in the same room, conversing. They had once been good friends. They had once fought side-by-side and back-to-back.. Gave their blood, sweat, and tears for their homeland, but that homeland had betrayed them. It had taken away their lives, and then a few years later, it had spit them back out with nothing but the clothes on their back and a swift kick in the ass. Disrespectful and disgraceful, indeed, but they could do nothing about it.. And as such, every member of the Platoon fell into a decline..

"So, you're saying that this 'Arkaine' person that just so happened to let our unit number slip.. You're saying it was actually his intention?"

The panther ran his hand over his chin, which boasted quite a bit of stubble from lack of shaving.

"That's what I'm sayin'.. Got word just recently from an unknown source."

"Mm... I'm not one to question your motives, Rico.. And I would rather not go back to prison… So, I'm with you on this one. What do you say we round up the rest of the gang?"

Both Dark and Sarge smiled -- a genuine, all-too-rare smile.

The phone rang. The panther and squirrel shared a paranoid look. The phone rang again. The squirrel named Rico finally answered it.

"Hello, Mr. Rodriguez," the caller said.
"Hello. State your name and business," Rodriguez answered.
"Warclat. Tom Warclat," the caller said.
"Well why in 's sake didn't you introduce yourself as WWW?" Rodriguez yelled at the phone. Dark chuckled, happy to hear from another former member of the 99th Platoon.
"Whatever. I've just received an interesting request and I thought you and Dark would like to hear about it," WWW said, giving off a little laugh.
"How the do you know about that? Damnit WWW, do you have this place bugged?" Rico asked.
"You'd be surprised what kind of stuff we've put in your house. That medal you got when we were shut down is a camera, so is the plaque. When you got your TV repaired we got the repairman to put a camera behind the screen. We've been watching you. Don't worry, Dark is safe, I'm the only one watching the feed," WWW said seriously.
"WWW, quit ing around and get to the point," Rodriguez demanded.
"It's time for a meeting with the boys and girls. Same place, same time," WWW said, promptly hanging up.

"Dark we're going for a little ride," Sarge said, throwing both his latest medal and plaque on the ground and crushing them under the heel of his combat boot.
"Where to?" The panther asked.
"Anthrax's place," Sarge said, walking out the front door.

The old, somewhat run down car rolled easily along the pathways and roads leading to Anthrax's Bar, a name that was synonymous with the 99th Platoon itself. It was the place they would return to time and time again; it was their own little piece of heaven, one might say. They would drink and celebrate successful missions, mourn the loss of a fellow platoon member, and devise plans for upcoming missions. It was home. For the Platoon, there was no place like it, and they would stay at the pub until Anthrax kicked them out, and that was quite doubtful, for he and the Platoon were quite close. Indeed, he had disagreed with some of their antics from time to time, but no matter how trashed his place became, he would never force the wild military band out, and he would always welcome them back with open arms. He knew that without the 99ers, a lot of the freedoms -- if not all -- would not be possible, and he could quite possibly be under Tediz rule instead.

The army-green classic vehicle pulled into the barren parking lot, and the headlights shone brightly upon the face of the door. The lights flicked off along with the engine and the radio that very rarely worked correctly. Both doors swung open and two boots hit the gravel at the exact same time. A panther, a mythical figure known for his viciousness and his mysterious background, emerged from the passenger side, and a muscular squirrel, legendary in stature for his steadfast determination and his ability to command his forces with both skill and regard for his troops.

The two slowly made their way towards the front entrance and easily pushed the door open; they stepped inside. The interior of the pub had changed quite a bit since the disbanding of the Platoon, for it seemed as if everything was in its correct place and nothing was broken. There was not a table out of place or a scuffmark on the floor. Anthrax must have become so bored in the absence of the Platoon that he had polished up his place to no end. Dark moved forward, delving deeper into the pub, which was lit only by the dim moonlight flowing in through an open window. The panther snickered and shifted his weight a bit, turning on his heel. His eyes peered into the darkness and a grin broke out on his face.

"Never thought I'd be glad to see a Tedi face…"