Author's Note: I have written, rewritten and re-rewritten. I have styled, restyled, and re-restyled. I have basically worked on this story as a labor of love and imagination because I feel driven to finish it. However, I am determined not to tell a sub-par story. This will be the only warning. There is gore. There is extremely graphic violence. There will be sex. There will be cursing, spitting and general bad behavior. This story explores angst, and the inner workings of character minds. It explores politics of various systems, and it explores a blending of mysticism and science. Basically, my friends, I have tried to include it all. I hope to present a mature, fulfilling story, rife with humor, action and satisfying plot.

Churchling is a play on words refering to Churchill. Yes, I know the Disclaimer on covers this, it's just a mild attempt to distance this story from 'human' culture - considering the SF canon universe refers to Einstein as if he were a smart man, it just seems like a variant history of earth would pay off. Anyway, Yes, I know it's a typo, suck it up and deal with it. It's there to set Lylat apart from the Sol system.

Codex Entry: Lylat: Planets: Venom: Venom is a hostile, nearly inhospitable world. It's atmospheric conditions are considered acidic at best, and catastrophic at worst. It is the farthest planet from the star Solar located inside the Greater Wall belt, an as so far explored, impenetrable, ancient 'Maginot Line' of weaponized Asteroids. It's atmosphere is thin and filled with a caustic mix of sulfur, methane, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and trace amounts of xenon, argon, and oxygen. Life on Venom is enabled thanks to advanced bio-domes and a massive, planet wide terra-forming effort.

Planet : Venom

Date : 2165 Cornerian Standard Year, 3rd January, 9:00 SST

James Tiber Oxian sighed as he swirled the whiskey about in his glass, the fine aroma lifting into his nostrils and beginning the process of intoxication. Such a rich, dark amber color, with such a high, mighty sensation that followed it. Whiskey. Truly the king of liqueurs. And honestly, it was quite terrible at making one forget.

He swirled the liquid as his god-daughter, a fact he never hid from her, walked into the den of the small homestead. She tapped a few buttons to seal the house against the approaching methane blizzard. She stripped her mask and exhaled lightly, and he shook his head, admonishing himself once again. "Fara, you have got to learn to tone down the charm." Even on a planet that was being terraformed, Lylan women always found ways to be sexy.

"Ah hell, J.T."

"Language." He tossed a small pillow at her. She laughed. "You know as well as I do you overdo it. Anyway. What'd you get for the surplus?" She had gone out to trade some of their product for other essentials - being such a harsh place in an otherwise mostly civilized system, Venom was uniquely suited to a plethora of barter stops and backroom dealings.

He looked at the gauges in the rustic wooden box nearby – It was an expensive piece, but, the artistry of the gauge box was what made it worth it. Just because Agriculture in Lylat was so damn advanced didn't mean you couldn't live in a log cabin. Plus, it kept people away – and people kept away didn't ask hard questions.

"Well, I got us some fish – fresh stuff too. Still got non-methylated ice clinging to them."

J.T. damn near jumped out of his easy chair, whiskey long forgotten. He looked into the brown paper wrapped package with utter glee. Like many Lylans, he was against the use of Feral Stock for edible protein. Fish, however, was universally agreed upon. Fish, Fish eggs, Fish-made-any-way-you-want-it and other fish byproducts saved Feral Lives. He never understood how his old team had eaten... Cow. He shuddered at the sheer joy of it. "Oh... Zoness Flounder?"

"No... Aquan Tilapia." Fara grinned wickedly. "I put the rest in cold-stock. We have 19 more."

"For soy-based Kibble?!" He looked at his daughter. She was a real trader baron when she wished to be.

"No. For the corn based kibble I traded to old man Ruthers. Soy base sells better to his contacts. Always will – he does business with the Macbethians, and soy allergies are far lower on Macbeth than corn." She grinned. "But corn base makes great trading funds with anything near the inner planets."

"With Cornerian corn -"

"They shut down the last processing plant this year. Now it's allllll organic home-grown stuff." She grinned. "And our EC greenhouses pump out shiploads of soy. We could switch to corn with half the crop and live like a senator!" She shook out her hair and went to the kitchen, fish in her elbow with a grin. "Come on dad. Let's live a little – Pan seared?" The thought of food was put aside as he imagined it, living in a giant mansion on some cozy inner planet, hundreds of servants, and an ocean of the finest whiskey, women, and cigars... and the grumble of his stomach forced him to turn his attention to the ravenous animal located south of his diaphragm but north of the other ravenous and quite starved beast he battled with.

"With Katinan Spices?" The tastes of that dust ball of a planet, so biting and warm, succulent and just a tad bit greasey... That was the taste of home to him. The meer thought of his familiar favorites sizzling in a skillet with oodles of delicious fishy flakes of a delicate and refined taste that ignited the senses and soothed any other worries...

"You know it." Fara could see that look in his eyes - J.T. would soon be remembering his first family, one taken from him by evil, and the other by good, but still taken. He always got like that whenever she cooked Katinan. Then again, her father died for that man, the broken son of a bitch with the bad back and eagle sharp eyes. Her heart broke for him, every night, but she had no choice. If she wanted revenge... and a future, she had to stick it out. And maybe, just maybe, get him laid before he started thinking her cooking was better than sex.

"I swear, If you were older and not my daughter, I'd marry you." He said, unthinking. "That came out very wrong." he said, sighing. "I just meant you're an amazing woman and I'd love to meet a woman like you and - damnit. I did it again. Uhm..." The warring forces of being a thirty-something who was old but not dead and a very hungry thirty something with a woman who was about to cook for him in the house sent his brain into a haywire spiral as he tried to talk his way out of his verbal faux-pax. "OKAY. You're a good cook and a great looking woman, and I'm ... uh... not jealous, uhm... ah! Happy! Happy for the guy that finally beds you. Wait. Damn it. I'm just gonna shut the hell up now." He smashed his forehead into his palm and ground it into his skull.

"I know. Ain't it a shame." She sighed. He was an idiot, in a way. One of those guys. Sexy because he's broken and all, but that only gets him so far. His mouth could put him in more trouble than his job did - and his job had resulted in more than a few times Fara herself being shot at, and she was certain on at least two occasions, killing a man or woman who was shooting back. "You really need to work on that awkward thing."

"Vixy thought it was cute..." J.T. said, and then turned back to his chair. He eased back into it, and sat, his eyes downcast. The whiskey found it's way into his hand as he rested his arm long on the arm rest of the chair, and idly swung the glass, swirling the dark amber liquid, the pungent aroma of cut oak and burnt wood released into the air as a long slow motion brought it to his muzzle, lips pursing over the edge, and a slight tip of the glass pouring it along a tongue made straw into his cheeks, the slow stinging burn of the liquid reminding him of nothing more than his continued existence in a cold, dark, lightless existence of pure burning depression, in which his only solace was the endlessness of the depths of depravity which he expunged from mortal hearts with extreme prejudice, thanks to military training and a strong, deep draw of whiskey. The two doses of fucitol he took in the morning every time he opened his eyes to see that infuriatingly beautiful picture didn't help either.

As he sat, however, the voice in the back of his head, the one that Lylans all shared, that of his instincts, or conciense or whatever one called it, soothed his burning hurt heart with a gentle reminder. One of them is still alive. The other will be avenged. Every job you do saves more people like the both of them. He sighed, and took another drink from his whiskey as he lit a cigar, the ocher smoke rising from it as it sat, smoldering on the arm of his chair a pungent, nutty smell with a hint of acrid flavor under it, signifying it's strong, health-depriving attributes and wonderfully mind numbing properties framed his face as he pulled it up, resting it behind his elongated canines, lifting the side of his lips called the jowls around the stubby base.

You're always so melodramatic when you think about being a soldier turned mercenary turned spy. He laughed. His inner voice always knew just what to say to fuck up his brooding depressions. As his eyes drifted closed, he smelled a far away world. He saw a beautiful red fox with a single thin white race leading into her forehead where a widow's peak lead into curly red hair the precise color of the sky at a katinian sunset, the brilliant orange framing sharp, piercing green eyes. The empty glass in his hand hit the table as the explosion behind her blew her flesh off and left him staring at a skull and mangled body parts lying beside a nice sportster hover car with the tatters of her pale green sundress whipping in the wind from the heat of the fire. Whiskey really sucked at making you forget. He was going to stare at the horrible memory until he ate dinner, and he would know, until the day he died.

He was responsible.

One week later...

Life goes on. It always does. J.T. And Fara lived a simple existence, using an extremely dumb AI (Basically, a mechanical alarm clock.) to keep the plants watered. He sat down on his easy chair again, after the last batch of reports filed. He checked the AI – All green. The Hydroponics in the farm's greenhouse were a okay. He lit a cigar – Rich, full, nutty taste, spice burn at the end, Finished with a zesty kick. He opened his bottle of bourbon whiskey. He poured himself half a glass. He took a draw from his Churchling length cigar.

He was content. His glass was half full, he mused. He heard his wrist beep. He glanced at it as he flicked ashes. "Agent Red..." He muttered. His second in command wouldn't call at this hour unless shit hit the fan. "Fara..." he called.

"Yehsh?" She called, a set of noodles still hanging from her jaws as she leaned back from the kitchen door in her chair, her eyes just briefly tearing away from her soap operas she had recorded as they had worked the week away.

"Put that on head set mode." he said quickly. She never questioned when he said these things. For good reason. She knew – kind of – what her godfather did for a day job. Espionage. Sabotage. Spy work.

Wet Work.

She popped the headsets in, and went back to her contented moments.

He swallowed some whiskey, jammed the cigar in his muzzle, and flicked his wrist. His communicator helmet popped open. It wasn't the same modle he had gifted his son, and it's quick, quiet clatter of it re-arranging it's form from a small white box at the base of his skull into a three pronged skull cap with a microphone by the back corner of his muzzle at the crease of his lips and a small blue light on his forehead that displayed a holographic face, while giving him the comforting weight he was used to, was still far less than his original model. "Red?"

"Black, there's incoming com traffic – A Zoness industrialist. It's a she, apparently. Who's this going to be? We weren't scheduled for any incoming squads, and - "

"Zoness has it's own spy forces. This could be someone else – Just a normal civi trying to help the peaceful resolution crowd. Oh... wait. Incoming transmission."

The Unknown ID popped up, and quickly went from unknown to 'Marie Kusaru, Galactic Exploits' – He knew the company. Huge black jobs contractors. Mercenaries? He quickly answered it as he drew on his cigar. "Yes Ma'am? What can thi-"

"Cut the crap, McCloud." Her Feline face was almost jaguarian, but the calico spot of her eye and the white rash of muzzle fur gracing her chin set her apart as not pure-blood. Rash, ambitious, and, in his opinion, probably the best kind of Lylan one could meet. He instantly disliked her, for all the right reasons. And he also respected her. She had some big ass ovaries.

"Shut your mouth. Do not EVER say that name on Venom." He hadn't reeled back or flinched. It wasn't the first time some young pup tried to use the name of his first family to shock or stir him to action. The haunting image of his son holding his dead mother's skull in shock and horror had rendered him immune to such trivial tactics.

"It's the only way to get you to listen. Andross just purchased quite a few eclectic items – Including several magnetic draw systems produced by Arspace Industries through a reseller on Zoness. But that's not what we're worried about. We know he's producing several Advanced Aerospace Fighter-bombers with Interplanetary capabilities. We're worried about these..." She pulled up a schematic – hard copies. "No pictures. We need to meet face to face. I work with Section 9."

James thought hard on that. Section 9 was an extra planetary crime investigation unit, that specialized in Special Tactics and Rescue. Basically, a system wide SWAT team that didn't respect any laws – because they couldn't afford to. If Section 9 was working towards Andross' fall, hostilities were on the brink of full scale war. "That looks like a Neural Uplink. He's already set up a planet wide array of radio towers and made a very strange underground base that I can't even get nano-bugs into."

"It is. It's a very powerful one. These are the plans from Ghost Base." Marie looked at the old fox with a deathly serious expression.

James stopped cold. The last time anything left Ghost Base, Timothy Phoenix had died in a suicide run on Andross' experimental "Apparoid Attraction Apparatus" that had successfully called in One of the damn creatures. This one had been deactivated and examined by Venomian forces. It had only taken one Apparoid to total three quarters of the Cornerian fleet, J.T. presumed it had come to find it's brother. Almost two million lives, to kill one of those things. And if Andross was trying to control them...

"I'm in. Where are you landing?"

"Farqo City Spaceport. Two hours."

"That's two hours from here, and it's a damn blizzard tonight!"

"Then you better run." She deactivated the call. Agent Red had hung up.

He retracted his communicator helmet and cursed. "FUCK."

"Language, J.T."

"Not J.T. Tonight. I'm Tiber tonight. I have to get ready. Methane blizzard... Possible combat actions..." He sighed. "I need my good armor and weapons." Methane blizzards were a hazard of living on the remains of a, if the scientists were right, terraformed gas giant.

She nodded, and fished out the re-breather and heavy enviro coat. She handed them to him. "In the barn, as always, J.T." She sighed. She knew him as J.T. But never by his last name, or anything else. Not even his Venomian Callsign. She watched him quickly suit up and activate the plasma containing atmospheric regulation woven into the coat. He looked like his fur stood on end as he walked into the rustic wood looking air lock – Which opened in an incredibly mechanical, advanced way. She shook her head. The old man confused her to no end. He liked things to look old but act modern. Weird old ding-bat.

The bitter cold outside bit into his fur, even through the snow shield the plasma field proved to be. He quickly ran the hundred yards to the Barn, jumping into the air lock and hitting the button. His Coat flashed red warning lights quickly, then hissed as it booted down. "Damn. This thing is really getting to be shit... or the weather is." He sighed. He rapidly tapped some buttons, and a door opened up below him. He quickly jogged down the steps.

The Pictures above the far desk showed lizards, monkeys, and not a few canines. All of Andross' primary supporters. He sighed as he looked. He didn't have names, only pictures. Searching for any of them would tip people off. He couldn't afford that. There were a few he DID recognize though.

Ursa Saragossa – Slaver and Pirate. He ran several huge space stations in Meteo. And his power was declining, thanks to new Pirate Hunting techniques developed by General Pepper.

Grigori... A Chameleon who's last name he didn't know. Mob connections, and a mean streak. Wet work specialist. Total bastard. Unforgivable motherfucker, really, if his reports were accurate.

And of course, Andross. He growled, and squeezed his hands hard, but quickly sighed. If he couldn't beat Andross in an Arwing... He wasn't going to beat him on the ground. He Screamed as he raked the desk off, and punched it, instantly recoiling and grabbing his hand. "Damnit!" he shouted, and sighed. Bones in his hand gave him and angry hum as his knuckles began to pulse and throb, a combination of old age, anger, and maybe a sip too much whiskey.

"No time to stuff your tail up your ass, shitface." He shook his head vigorously. He opened up a nearby locker. Inside was contained a highly speculative prototype armor suit. He grunted pulling it out of the locker. He huffed as he set it down. "You're kidding me. Do I... yeah. Yeah, I do." He shook his head. "Stupid to think I wouldn't. Never was good at this infantry crap."

He pulled on the breast plate, and began to suit up. The suit hissed as it settled into place. Slim black lines appeared, then he pulled on the helmet as they formed in the joints. The system booted. "Activate Environmental condition red. Venomian Methane Blizzard."

It beeped in response, and a heat monitor appeared. He nodded. He quickly walked, for though the suit was bulky, it remained flexible, to his car. It was a two seater super sport model with anti-grav boosters.

It was basically a damn bullet. His weight with the suit, however, caused it to rock as he entered. He sighed. "Forgot my damn guns..." he muttered, hauling himself out of the car. "Never would have made that mistake three years ago..." He sighed, and closed his eyes for a minute.

A park in a field inside a giant metropolis. His son, Fox, his Wife, Vixy, his blood-brother's son feral son, Cole. Fox played in the sand box as he sat beside Vixy, running a hand through her bob cut. Curly red hair tangled his hand in it's ringlets. Her tail swished with pleasure. He looked to his son as he built a sand castle, a young, feral wolf barking playfully, and pawing at the sand nearby, trying to emulate his friend. The poor kid, Cole, would never know how to do what Fox did. But he would understand it. He sighed. "Vixy, Why do things like this happen to good kids like Cole?"

She turned to him, and smiled. "Because we don't need the technology. We only need each other. Cole is faithful. You think he will ever forget his friends or family? Never. The Goddess made the Ferals, just as much as she made us. Just because they're different... doesn't mean they're worse."

"They're all purebloods..." he muttered. She smiled. "That's the risk of loving people who are the most like you. It's why opposites attract, darling." She shook her head. "But, Our child, Fox... He's smart. He's fast. And He's sharp. That's the benefit. Better than average children – Or ones who have gone to the Goddess' Service."

He nodded. He held her close, smiling, looking at his young son. He didn't know, but this was his last moment of happiness with his wife... and son. "I have to go. You'll get Cole back over to Shiva's?"

"Yes, Dear. Be SAFE, my love." He smiled.

"Always, Heart of my Life." He kissed her gently, and stood, Joining J.W. "Ready to go, Old Dog?"

"I was wondering when you'd stop with the sappy shit." He said, grinning as he jostled his blood-brother as they piled into his car. James stopped. "Wait, just a tick."

"Hey, Vixy! Take your car home, Okay? Take a cab to come pick mine up."

"Alright love!"

He stepped into the car, and smiled. "I love my family."

"And I love my Pack." J.W. Responded as he pulled his black shades down with a Grin. "You know... If we make it out alive from all this... Maybe I'll buy you a pair of specs like mine. You could use a few more points on the ole' coolometer. Won't be long till your son thinks you're as lame as my oldest does!" The wolf beside him laughed haughtily, a wide, wicked sarcastic grin splitting his brown and silver fur.

"You're supposed to be the billionaire playboy, remember?" The burnt red lashed over James' face above his white muzzle creased with pleasure as he closed the door and the car roared to life.

James came back to himself. The flashback, unbidden, had buried him in grief again. He Shook it off. He grabbed an Assault Rifle and Pistol – Both Blasters – and jumped into the car. He stopped for a moment, then grabbed his envirocoat and tossed it inside as well. He turned the motor over, and started the heater full blast. He tapped the button for the Car-lock and creeped the car forward into the massive air lock. It bucked under his light touch. "Shh baby... It'll be alright..." The door ahead of him opened as the one behind him hissed. And he gave the mare under his ass, the beautiful sports car that needed nothing more than a free, hard run, her head.

He wanted nothing more than to go home and drink himself into a stupor. A drunk fogged existence of reliving his greatest and most complete failure over and over again. But he gave his all for the Government he believed in. The one that betrayed him. The one he thought he could save.

Just like he thought he could save his son. His foot sunk on the gas pedal.

The Vehicle, a Wild Mare by Ferrut rocketed out into the night. Fara watched him leave with a sigh. She put in the password to his room, "V1xY#0X" and entered, looking at the pictures of his real family – and her real father. The Original designer, and builder, of the Arwing's Ancestor, the Phoenix Fighter Bomber. She clutched the paper in her hand tighter. "Another year... One more year, and I can go home. I can claim my Trust fund, and build something BETTER than an Arwing. One... more year without... dad." She cried, letting the big, sloppy tears smooth her fur.

Joeseph's car skidded to a halt as James opened the car door, his son Fox sitting in the back crying in fear. The roaring inferno was all that was left of the beautiful black Masteria sports car that James drove. And laying some distance away was a corpse. Red fur hung in ragged strips, and whole parts of her body were missing. But James didn't run to that. He ran to the head, laying some five foot distant. Burnt and charred, most of the flesh gone, but flakes of pink-white bone peeking through the blackened flesh. Fox jumped out of the car. He was only twelve or so. "MOM!" he screamed.

James was crying. Sharp, acid tears ripped their way through his fur as hysterical sobs penetrated his lungs. the tearing pain in his chest was his heart, breaking through his ribs as it swelled huge in his chest before forcing the pumping blood in his system to his brain, an aching pain that forced the veins and arteries to swell and pulse, the pounding ache in his head threatening to rip it off. His hand went for his gun, ready to end it all...

Fox slid down beside his mother's skull. He grabbed it, panic and total terror in his eyes. "mom..." his voice was small. Meek. Weak. James' hand went limp. This moment was his worst, most goddess forsaken moment in the history of his entire family. Fox's expression began to crack.

"Don't you dare." James said, glaring at his son. "You... You don't get to break. She's already with the Goddess." He stared at his son hard. "Have some respect. Put it down. Get up. Come with me." Neither one of them was allowed. Mourning could be done later, when the job was finished. First Timothy, and now Vixy. Andross was going to pay dearly. "I'm going to tell you who did this, why, and then I'm going to teach you what you need to know to enroll at the Military Academy while I'm off killing that sick mother fucker."

Fox just nodded, his world now in smoldering ashes, pieces smaller than the car was in... Smaller than the bits of his mother strewn across the parking lot of his favorite park. And he knew, somehow, that he would be okay, as long as he had direction.

Fox McCloud learned how to shoot a gun that night.

Marie Kusaru felt the ship touch down. She stepped outside in her light armor suit. It wasn't anything fancy by any means, enough to keep her alive in a very light firefight. She was now regretting the decision to be first out and last in, as well as her argument with Marcus about wearing 'real' armor. A sports car was flying in quickly in the distance. But that wasn't what she focused on.

Six Chameleons sat at the bottom of the ramp. An elder one smiled. "Hello, Miss Kusaru." She pulled her pistol as her guardians stepped off the frigate as well. "An entire frigate, just for you? A shame. We have Orders to destroy it." The wizened looking chameleon smiled wickedly. HIs teeth were rotten, almost completely gone. She could almost smell it the sight was so horrid.

"Who's?" She asked, simply, lining up a shot on him. Her feline eyes noticed that around him, snow had stopped hitting the ground. He was using a plasma shield. Now, she silently thanked Sheba, pantheon goddess of Cats, and Marcus, for suggesting she use such an outdated weapon.

"Simple. Admiral Haru's. You're here, chasing information that you don't need to find." His wicked grin grew wider- a real Cheshire grin. As if his face split ear to ear, and his whole head looked as if it flopped as he said it, his sickeningly black speckled tongue slipped out and traced over his lower lip, the fat appendage rolling up, slime dripping to the snow, but stopping just short of the spot of contact, where the plasma shield he was contained in hit the ground.

She didn't answer to the Cornerian military leader's orders. But the name took her back. He had been smiling at her across a desk not even a day past. Then again, when didn't politicians sharpen their claws with your hard work?

"Who are you?" Her voice was firm and unwavering.

"Me? I'm no one important." He raised his cane, and pointed at her. "But, I suppose, to the dead, the one who murdered them IS important." He tapped a button. She jumped to the side, but something clicked against her weather coat. The electrical current rippled over her armor. "SHIT! KILL THEM ALL!" The old man shouted, and she lined up a shot.

The solid ammunition weapon, a 45 caliber, old style revolver, issued a gout of flame. The neat hole in the center of his forehead was all that she needed to know that he hadn't been expecting classic weaponry – which still had advantages over Blasters. His head was once very round. Now it was very much a crescent, brain matter splattering a younger but similar looking Chameleon. Her body flew to the side with the dive, and splashed down into the frozen methane. Green, caustic dust erupted around her.

"FATHER!" he shouted, his flesh going pale green-white, the same color as the snow.