'And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge

With Ate by his side come hot from hell

Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice

Cry 'Havoc' and let slip the dogs of war;'

"Star Fox: Cry Wolf"
By Infanteer

'Andross had many means at his disposal – he firstly routed the allied forces of the Cornerian Confederacy with legions of mechanical drone assault fighters, rabid shock troops for sweeping ground warfare drawn and recruited from all corners of Lylat, and even biogenetically engineered weapons made from the more majestic of living specimens – themselves natural rarities – which devastated his adversaries ruthlessly. And then, when all hope seemed at loss, he employed a trump card – Star Wolf One, an elite aviator squad for tactical assault against specific targets of the Cornerian military. What revolutionary technology he had employed in engineering the Lylat- and ArWing space fighters when working for Corneria, he made obsolete in face of the Wolfenstein Mark I and Mark II fighters!'

- Excerpt, recorded seminars of Professor Ang Renard
Academy of Military Aviation History, Katina Capital

Prologue :

The sound of the brush is constant, the sweeping of bristles across boot-leather a soothing window into the steely calm of the hand guiding them. The noise is like a sigh, back and forth, a cooing hush-and-be silent lullaby to the targets of their ministrations – a simple pair of aviator combats, their laces undone and coiled downwards towards the cold floor like black ropes of spider-web. Beneath the brush, the thick greasy and formerly dull black polish warmed and spread and hardened to a gleaming shell like black ice caught beneath the headlights of a speeding vehicle.

He rather liked that image, black ice - unexpected and lethal and indifferent. His wrist gained with the thought a more fervent expression of movement while he let the amoebae of his thoughts collect and wander from their instinctive formation like ink drops in water. He did not love or hate polishing his boots – it was only a mediocre activity which needed to be performed. But its listlessness was meditative – unrestrained from so simple an action, he could think or relax or both and he did this with determined professionalism. And of course, that cold gleam, the direct result of his work, was coolly, carnivorously satisfying.

Wing-Captain Wolf Emery O'Donell exhaled hot against the leather of his boot, gave it another speedy brush, and dropped it with a muffled thump. He lifted his second boot in a large, calloused, furred hand, and picked up the applicator brush. They would be like black ice. He had one more pair to finish, and then he would polish his belt buckle, press his uniform, put a gleam on his badges and medals and shine his officer's cap. It was 92 minutes to H-Hour. 92 minutes until the thrusters to their Wolfenstein fighter-crafts began the slow ignition to full power. 92 minutes until flight-team Star Wolf One fell across the skies of idle Katina, 92 minutes until the air was again filled with the black choke of incendiary explosives, the burn of ozone and hot splashing of condensed plasma. 92 minutes until the killing hour.

He needed to be dressed appropriately. Dress, deportment, and attention to detail had been hammered into him across a long and hard life behind the carnage of war. These things were an essential asset to the mind of the soldier – they were essential and applied to the act of killing and survival, fundamental skills that bred the natural reflexes and thought-processes required to be successful, victorious, and surviving. He understood these things now, as he had before and more than ever now, 92 minutes before he would lead his team into a pre-emptive assault against Katina Major, attacking one of the largest Air Bases in the Lylat system and an essential cog to the Cornerian War Machine.

He paused, thumbing a retracted claw against the scratchy fabric of a patch slung across his left eye. He had given an eye for Corneria in the Service. He would take from them so much more. 92 minutes.

He stiffened, reflexively checking his watch, a simple thing of gold and glass. 90 minutes. He was passing the time. It ticked on and he swept his brush against the leather of his boot, and its scratching echoed on down the empty halls of the hangar barracks.

It was a dark lullaby.