BACKGROUND – If we can’t grow it, it can’t be grown!

While not as glamorous as the Artisan-Cats, adventurous as the Military-Clans or as famous and well known as the Lawyer-Clan, the Farmer-Cats, or Founding #7 are the most important of all the feline space faring clans.

On average, one family farm has the ability to feed a planet of ~3 billion for a year on a single growing season. Because of the magnitude of importance of agriculture worlds throughout the galaxy, the exact locations of the worlds are a closely guarded secret, even on planet itself. Most of the stars have been blotted out with holographic null fields at night to prevent locals, without proper security clearance, to determine the precise location.

Even with the exact location an invading force would have to contend with, but not limited to: Battle Barges from the 9th Order and Military Clan Navies, Killer satellites, orbital mind control platforms (to mentally control invading commanders), ground based missiles emplacements, and laser defense platforms and Intention weapons (banned by the Galactic Council with the exception of certain critical areas because of their ability to cause genocide of entire species when deployed).

This doesn’t include the ground based defense forces such as tectonic elementals, usually the size of a continent and obey the commands of the Druid-mage class. It gives new meaning to the saying “there will be a gun behind every blade of grass” because every blade of grass could be weaponized at a moment’s notice by defending druids. Immigrants are heavily screened and vetted before they are even considered to be allowed to visit. Often times these visitors will have their memories wiped by psychics in order to protect the agriculture industry.

The farmer clan families and houses often employ and train magic users, of all flavors, more so than any other clans because of the aid to farming, weather, and elemental control.

While most task mages can find lackluster employment working as engineers, heavy equipment mover, movie/theater special-FX designers (similar to using CGI in movies), or battle mages with the military clans (though it’s dangerous work) they will easily find work and good money working for a House in the farmer clan territory.

The concept of private ownership of land is unheard of because of the attitude that one can’t truly, in the purest sense, own land. In a sense the land owns you.

“We come from the land, and we live off the land and our bodies return to it, therefore it’s not possible to claim ownership over something that is part of us all,” Primary tenant of the Church of Our Ancestors Farmer-Clan Edition.

Often time’s items that are grown on farms are determined by the client, the land itself, and market demand. While many magic users who specialize in Shamanistic and Druid magic go to the Farmer-Clan territories to seek their fortunes often become so bonded to the land, they rarely leave.

It’s often said that members of the farmer families, with thousands of years of history and skill, can grow a seed in the most impossible conditions.

Many of the old timers, or Elders, brag that can grow watermelons inside the belly of a live volcano. Whether this is true or not, very few doubt they don’t have the ability to make good a promise like that.

***

I sulked all the way down the stairs. Outside, Lee was waiting by his doorway. Anna, Lee and sometimes his girl Abby (who works at Fat Cats Restaurant) usually walk together every morning together since they work near each other. Lee isn’t much of a talker so it was quiet with the exception of the passing buses and people doing their people things.

We both arrived at The Broken Compass and Murray’s Meats. A bus hummed by.

“Later,” I said to Lee.

He grunted back. I knew the sooner I got there, the sooner I could leave to home. The smell of beer stained floors and cheap grog hit my nose as soon as I entered. The man behind the bar was balding, and what little hair he had was making a retreat down his back.

“How does my sis work in a place like this?” I asked myself. Pictures of old wooden sailing ships and a few old few cruise liner posters lined the dirty rust-colored wall.

There were two old-timers sitting in the corner talking about the old days. Another guy was in the corner rocking back and forth over and over with a bottle of XXX Rum.

I sighed and spoke up, “I’m here to cover for my sister, Anna.”

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“Arrr, stop standing der an’ mouth-breathin’ like a fuckin’ dipshit trog and fuckin’ git to work!” He shouted as she slammed his mallet-like fist on the counter which made me jump.

This confirmed my theory of this place being the shithole where my sister got her bad language from.

I went behind the counter and grabbed an apron. It was the only clean thing in this dump. I grabbed a broom and began to sweep. All under the ever cursing mouth of the old tug-boat of a bartender.

I served drinks, cleaned and served more drinks. About 10-minutes before the end of the shift a grey bearded sailor stumbled into the bar. He had a glass eye and scar that ran from the top of his forehead along his nose and down to his chin, giving him a forced half smile.

As he dragged his foot across the old floor and eventually made his way into a corner both. He took his leg and propped it up on a chair. Tugboat looked up and snapped his fingers.

I walked up to him and asked, “whatcha havin?”

He looked up at me with his good eye and stared. It felt like it was about 5-minutes before the old spacer was done mouth-breathing.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a 100-Gold note and threw it at me. “Here’s your fuckin’ gold Bailey, I’ll give you da’ rest later fucker!” he blurted out.

I looked at the note, sure enough it was real.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you old man?” I ask him, annoyed.

I looked at the barkeeper.

The bartender yelled back, “That ain’t Bailey, that’s his cum stain of a stupid stupid brat!”

“Fuck you Tugboat!” I yelled at the bartender.

After working here for a few hours I learned the only way to get respect here is curse like everybody else.

“Who the hell is Bailey, my dad?” I asked.

The old man turned his head to get a better look.

“Well suck me into a black hole,” he laughed “Ha! You jus’ look like old man Baily.”

“He looks like a whiney ass Kitten,” replied Tugboat.

The three people there laughed.

“You knew my old man?” I asked.

“Aye’, he was an Inquisitional Man-at-Arms, kido,” he explained.

“I thought he was an old spacer, old man, not what-ever the fuck you jus’ said,” I laughed nervously.

“Git me an ale and’ I’ll tell you all about him,” he replied.

I nodded and got him a drink.

He explained to me that my father, aka Bailey, would board ships to cleanse them of femoire and other corrupting influences. On long voyages people willingly converse with these corrupted spirits in order to gain power or favors. During the long faster-than-light jumps when the ships are further away from the reality matrix, or congenital border, the spirits from the Abyss whisper to unsuspecting or weak-willed spacers. Once a person is fully corrupted they would slowly spread their lies and influence on the ship. It was my father’s job to hunt down those who were corrupted and eliminate them.

“Then, what did you have to do with my old man?” I asked.

“It’s it obvious? Look at my face, dipshit! I was possessed by dem spirits an’ Bailey was able to exercise it outta me.”

“So my sperm donor worked for the…”I said.

The old man slammed his bony old fist into my chest. I gawked back at him, and shook my head.

“You stupid fuck, you should show more damned respect to him! He put himself in danger everyday so you assholes kids and your mom had food an’ a home. He was in constant danger and couldn’t say anything or run the risk of being targeted by hungry ghosts, demons or WORSE!”

What could be worse than demons or ghosts I wondered, but it was not worth pressing the issue.

“So my s…father worked for the Church?” I asked.

“Naa…he trained dit dem, but quit after 3-yers. Binny wats the name of da company Man-o-Arms Bailey worked for?”

“Uhh, Diamond Defence?” Binny (so that’s the bartenders name) yelled back at the old spacer.

“Naa…da other one!” he snapped his fingers a few times “Black-Flag I think”

Binny chimmed in “Black-Flag!”

I was taken aback by revelation; my old man was some kind of mercenary demon hunter. It was too much to soak in, again. I needed more fresh air, again. I took off my apron and tossed it on the table.

The bartender asked “So when is your idiot sis gonna come back?”

“Hopefully never,” I muttered and walked out.

Lee was outside with Red and Akuma. Before I could get too close they walked off.

Red called back to Lee “Make sure you tell’em!” before heading down Vore Street.

I took my hands out of my pockets. “Tell’em what?”

“They got you slingin’ UP! Tomorrow by broken down stop-and-rob we busted up last night,” Lee said.

“Why the fuck there?” I asked.

“I dunno, but we gotta come up wit more tax gold. Red said we owe about 10k.”

“10K??!?!?! What the fuck for? We only pay 5k!” I hissed back.

“The Main Street Gang uped our taxes, an’ said we didn’t pay them fast enough and so dey jacked up our rates to set an example.” Lee remarked.

“Fuck, I bet Akuma didn’t even try to talk his way outta it either, stupid shitbird,” I growled in annoyance.