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The Saga of Kings, Book I: Hero

Written by,

Vile M.F. Slanders

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*T...T...T...T*

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"...In Pace, Ut Sapiens, Aptarit Idonea Bello... (...In peace, like a wise man, he appropriately prepares for war...)" - The PKMN Ranger's motto.

-v-

Prologue: A New Reign

"What the hell do you lot want?"

"..."

"Really?"

"..."

"Don't ask why."

"..."

"King?"

"..."

"What do you mean, King? The King is dead."

"..."

"No, I'm not."

"..."

"Then tell them to stop calling me the King."

"..."

"Fine. I'll tell you."

"…"

"...-"

"-..."

"-...-"

"Stop. Stop with the fucking questions. One at a fucking time. You. Front row, in the seedy blue sweater."

"...-"

"I didn't ask who you represent, just ask your fucking question."

"..."

"What? Are you fucking serious? Alright. You know what? Screw this shit. I'll start from the fucking beginning. The very fucking beginning."

"..."

"Before that, asshole. Before I met the fucking King."

"..."

"Yeah, that's right. A year ago."

"..."

"I assure you, it has everything to do with this."

"..."

"An autobiography? What the fuck-? Sure, whatever floats your fucking boat."

"...-"

"Don't you dare call me King."

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._^_^_.

*_.{PKMN}._*

\.{Ranger}./

.Zane.

*-.v.-*

My name is Zane. Yes, that's my name. Yes, actually. Zane isn't my real name. It's the name I chose for my Ranger's Badge. And it's the name written on my Trainer's License. My real name? Unimportant. Everything I was before Zane was only something building up to him. Whatever I was called before Zane… No value.

Right, anyways…

Oh really?

Yeah, I'm sure to your eyes, I'm just another dropout Greenback. Just another fruitless delinquent still wearing his battle dress and beret in a vain effort to appear like he isn't a complete failure. Just another Ranger who quit. Guess what?

I'm still on the payroll.

Yep, a lone Ranger, miles away from any outpost. Still on active duty, with only my radio linking me to command. No commanding officers present to hold my leash. A free bird, with clipped wings. That's me.

So what is an active Ranger doing here in Pewter City? Challenging the Gym Leader. Duh.

Oh I get it. Just because I'm a Ranger, it obviously means that I'm expressively forbidden from competing in Pokemon battles. That clause doesn't apply to me. Sure, my mon may be trained to kill other mon, but I can keep them restrained.

Accidents?

Let me tell you something about "accidents."

Three years ago-

Wait, what you do mean, you don't have time for this? You fucking asked me a Goddamn question, now sit your snotty prepubescent ass down, and listen to my fucking answer!

Seriously?

Okay... Mommy and daddy have never chewed your ass out before, have they?

Ranger's Tip: If you're gonna cry like a little bitch when somebody yells at you, hang your fucking belt up. You just aren't ready for the world beyond these walls.

Really? That Rattata is gonna protect you from a rampaging Nidoking, huh?

No. It won't. It'll get killed and eaten, probably not in that order. What do you do next?

Run? From a pissed off Nidoking? You fucking with me? No. You die. And get eaten. Not in that order.

Really? Okay, after I'm done smearing your Rattata's ass across six separate districts, I'm revoking your Trainer's License.

Yeah, actually. I can. I'm a Ranger, remember?

Why?

Because you're not fucking ready.

Three years ago, I was what you would call a typical teen. Just your typical Celadon City fourteen year old overachiever, with somebody else's grand plan for them spanning the rest of his life. A straight 'A' student with a promising future, all squandered when he enlisted into the Pokemon Ranger Corps. My mom and dad were not happy, but at least it wasn't the military. That said, when they found out about my ambitions, my old man did everything he could to keep me out of the recruiters office.

But just like Bugs-Lopunny and Blaze-Horn-Kick-Horn, the wacky wabbit eventually got into the Torchic coop. Sure, Dad might have gotten the last, very loud, word; and Mom was crying up a storm… But I got my papers. I swore my oath. One family-unbonding and traumatizing week later, I was at boot camp, after being told never to come home again.

If you're still out there, Dad?

Fuck you.

And fuck your fucking home.

To be honest, despite my animosity towards my parents… It was a recent development. One that took years of clandestine martial training to get over. Before I swore myself into the Ranger Corps, my family and I got together swimmingly. A kindhearted, nurturing mother, always there to listen to my daydreams. My grounded, realistic father, rarely there, but when he was; he made sure that his affection for his son was known by grooming me into the family business. Both took care of me. Both loved me. Both wanted the best for me. Yeah, it was a dreamy life. Hell, had I stayed with it, I might have joined my father's financial ranks as a millionaire.

Fuck that.

I was born on the wild side. I didn't want a Investment-Consultant position in Silph Co. agenda. I didn't want to head overseas to sit in a cozy Devon Market Committee lounge. I knew what I wanted.

I wanted to wear a Black Beret.

Yep, the first time I ever saw a Blackhat was in Cerulean's one-hundred-and-thirty-second National Parade of Stations. Team seven. All sixteen members. All riding their giant fucking Gyaradosia. I was five. How could I not want to be one of those scary fucking blacked out figures, riding on top of one of those scary fucking dragon-snakes, wearing a scary fucking expression that read:

"I don't give a fuck."

Yeah, I wanted that at five. Nothing's changed. I'm still trying for that Black Beret, even if I know that my medical history is going to stop me. Anyways…

Spent six months as a Ranger Cadet, got my E-3 Rocker Stripe insignia two months in as a recruit. That's PFC, or Private First Class. Noticed for exceptional service with eight months served total. Now that's Corporal Zane.

Made Warrant Officer at sixteen years of age. I was a Goddamn prodigy.

Sixteen also happened to be the age where I could apply for my PKMN Trainer's Licence. If you want to rise above enlisted, you've got to get that bloody License.

Anyone can tell you how easy it is to get your Trainer's License. Shit, they practically hand them out like Combee-comb candy nowadays.

And that's probably why the Trainer mortality rate is so Goddamn high.

Great idea, Indigo. Let's give every stupidly naive sixteen year old the opportunity to make friends with a fucking homicidal monster, and then send them out into a world full of even less stable fucking homicidal monsters.

But from a eugenicist's perspective, you politicians made Darwin proud. The old Darwin, asshat. Not mine.

The reason for the age being so stupidly low, is because of fucking tradition. Back before we kicked our habit of trying to mass-produce everything that we wanted, back before we figured out that our guns and bombs weren't going to save us, back when we finally realized that our tenure as Earth's dominant species was over…

...You were expected to die fighting at sixteen years of age. It made sense. So did teen pregnancy. I mean shit, the average life expectancy was barely thirty years. Most people died before eighteen. It's a wonder that we avoided the Dark Ages for three whole centuries AFTER the Brink Collapse.

But now? Now, when society has finally established a foothold? Now when the pre-Brink technology has finally returned, adapted for this new monster infested world? It just isn't necessary to die at sixteen. For all our evolution these past fifteen-hundred years…

The human species still has a long way to go.

Either way… Back to my illustrious origins.

Chief Warrant Officer Zane Bastard. I got promoted about a week ago. Actually yes, I refer to myself as bastard. Zane may be my name of choice, but my fellow Cadets way back in boot camp knew me as "The Bastard." Given my family history, I made the nickname my last name. And it stuck. My fellow Warrant Officers neglected "Zane," in favor of "Fucking Bastard." But my superiors just know me as Bastard. But you, civilian? You fucking call me Chief Warrant Officer Zane. Only Greenbacks get to call me Bastard.

So I got my Trainer's License, and I got the first Block on my insignia, and then… I got my first mon.

But before that, I should explain what this esteemed Chief Warrant Officer's field of expertise is in the Ranger Corps.

I'm a combat engineer. AKA, a Sapper. Positioned on the front, blow torch in one hand, pokeball in the other. Five pounds of C4 and two kilogram-and-a-half tubes of thermite strapped to my back. And that's just for taking out a Beedrill hive. You should see the ordnance I get to play with when we need to eradicate a Tentacruel infestation. I fucking love fly fishing with an ANFO packed lure…

Oh yeah... Sorry about that. I just took a fond trip down old memory lane. Back to the story. Originally, I just planned to be a Field-Technician. Run cables, fix radio towers, wire new outposts, fix broken Ranger equipment, et cetera, et cetera… Sounds boring, right?

It was. But it was the best chance I had at getting under a Black Beret. You see, contrary to popular belief, there are a lot of gung-ho, neck-snapping, Ursaring-wrestling, Muk-spitting, Probopass chewing badass motherfuckers in the Ranger Corps. And they only take the pick of the litter for the Blackhats.

But Field-Technicians? Smart, driven ones who can operate under extreme duress?

There aren't many smart motherfuckers in the Ranger Corps. Just saying.

Yep, I had ten times the opportunity to wear a Black Beret just by proving I'm smarter than the average Joe. But even with the ten times multiplier? My chances rose from Torchic shit-nothing, to Tepig shit-nothing. But I'd still take those chances. That was, right up until I met Vauban.

Vauban. My first mon. Bred by Chimera Industries' Waterloo Division. Same fucking state of the art facility that the Military gets their war mon from. She's a sixth generation High-Offensive Bulbasaur, hereditarily superior to every other Bulbasaur in the Indigo League's Registration Archives. She's fed a Top-Secret, Toxin Homogenized, Pokeroid Infused Fertilizer that you can't even buy on the black market. Starting on the very first day she shucked off her eggshell, she's been mentally and physically conditioned to engage wild pokemon with extreme prejudice and deadly force. Genetically altered chloroplasts for increased metabolic rate and enhanced neural reactions when exposed to ultra-dense UV rays. Taught battle techniques explicitly outlawed for use in restricted competition by the League Legislation for being too "Reckless" and too "Endangering." And ready to lay her life down for the piece of shit Greenback who shares an exact replica of her G.I. barcode tattoo, right on the exact same shoulder that she anatomically reflects.

Vauban. She's the sweetest damn thing I'll ever know, and there isn't poon beguiling enough on this planet of earth to ever come between us.

Girls, if it creeps you out, then find another stud. But if you and I are going to get our freak on…

-Vauban gets front row seats and first dibs on the back massage. Her popcorn and protein drinks compliments of your sexy-man host.

I love my Vauban. Even if she is a mon.

How did we first meet? Never met a Ranger, have you? Roll Call. You see, in the Ranger Corps, unlike the military; we actually get to chose our mon, rather than have them assigned to us based off of our field of expertise. Yeah, Rangers call it "Role Call," because there's a Role Call that starts the selection process off.

Vauban was an irregularity. She was the first Bulbasaur to ever be dispatched to the Rangers. She was meant to go into Military service as a Saboteur unit, but lucky for her, the Military withdrew her requisition. Vauban is too good to be a Saboteur. And even a mon hater like me clams up when I think about Vauban being deployed as a single-use bio-bomb. Vauban is way too good for hypermetabolism therapy and septic overload stimulation.

If you want to blow a mon up, just to make a shit load of lethal neurotoxins spread out in a four klick radius, then use a fucking Vileplume.

Ever talk about using a Bulbasaur as a bomb around me…

I'll leave you wishing that it was a Saboteur's dispersal that killed you.

Ahem…

Either way, Vauban was the first Bulbasaur I ever saw. She really didn't look that imposing with a Houndour sitting on one side of her, and a Rhyhorn on the other. But those were common mon in the Rangers. Try as they might, everybody's eyes kind of meandered away from the standard line of Growlithes, Poliwags, Woopers, Spearows, Dodous, Mankeys, Sandshrews, Drillburs, and even the rare Ponyta; just to stare at the diminutive green dinosaur that couldn't have looked any more out of place.

Every other mon looked fierce, hardened, battle ready, dangerous. The Bulbasaur just yawned cutely and rolled onto her side.

I immediately knew who I didn't want as my first mon.

The Mankey: Who shat in one hand and took a deep whiff of it, before flinging his steaming excrement right into the Ponyta's face.

I hate all of the primate pokemon with a specially reserved passion just because of that Mankey. No self-respecting animal should sniff its own poo.

After the CO's Poliwrath had calmed every mon down, and whipped the fucking Mankey into a bloody stutter, Roll Call began.

I wasn't the first name on the list. I was a freshly minted Warrant Officer, and several others had my accolades beat by seniority. So I was number five on the list.

Predictably, the Ponyta went first. Even with a face coated in Mankey dung, it was still the most desirable mon on the roster. I didn't sweat it. Ponytas and their evolved form, Rapidash, are favorite mounts among Rangers, and even somewhat useful in combat. But they were not the best compliment as far as Technician work went. Anyways, I had my heart set on a Gyarados, the signature mount ridden by every Blackhat.

The Houndour and one of the two Rhyhorns went next. Then name number four was called.

Thank God. The gurning, sick fuck picked the Mankey. I was afraid that the little simian-suidae shit was going to muss up my plan.

"Warrant Officer Zane Bastard."

My call. Showtime.

I didn't point to any particular mon when I sauntered out into the field. I didn't bark a mon's species, and order its subservience to my side. I didn't do a damn thing that everyone else always did.

I marched out into the center of the field. I assumed the attention stance.

Then plopped right down on my Officer bum in one swift descending motion.

I got a lot of stares, and not just from the mon. I could feel every petty officer's eyes grilling the back of my neck. My CO cleared his throat, but he failed to reprimand me for my breach of etiquette. Leaving me to sit on the ground in front of all those confused mon.

You see, I'm a mon hater. I hate- Fucking hate Pokemon. It might have something to do with me joining an outfit that has dedicated itself to the eradication of Pokemon. Or maybe it was an inherited prejudice from my old man. Probably both. Either way, I didn't want a single fucking one of those low down, belly dragging, mouth breathing, child killing shitsticks. But I had to get one. I needed to start Training. Otherwise, that Black Beret would never crown my head.

Call it cold blooded ambition. I really don't give a fuck. We spent fifteen-hundred years killing and getting killed by mon in an effort to hold onto a world that wasn't theirs. They invaded us, and we lost. That kind of conflict leaves scars. Those scars beget memories. And those memories…

They run deep. Generations deep. Now, before joining the Rangers, I never had a single bad experience with a pokemon in my life. I didn't really meet any, raised in a cushy, bigoted household; where the only mon I ever came into contact with were the ones that were served on a dinner plate.

But I heard stories. War stories. Family stories. I saw video recordings, fifteen hundred years old, detailing the Brink Collapse in all its human helplessness and immeasurable carnage. I remember watching a troop of MBTs line all four guns on a Steelix rampaging through Manhattan center. I watched as four one-hundred-and-ten millimeter Tungsten sabots slammed directly into the giant damn metal snake. I watched as it shook them off like snowflakes. I watched the next salvo make contact, and I watched as this previously impossible monster grew annoyed.

And then I watched the Steelix crush the old MBTs like they were made out of tin foil.

That wasn't the only haunting video I played witness too. There were worse. A lot worse. Have you ever seen the footage of Regigigas rising out of the Altyn Tagh fault? That fault line used to be part of a mountain range in India. You don't know what India is?

It was a continent. We don't know what happened to it. We just know that a monster the size of a fucking mountain rose from the Earth and made a landmass disappear, leaving only a cold ocean where a dry piece of our planet once stood.

So yeah, hate runs deep. And my family was one of the many who never forgot that. Guess that's why I wanted to be a Blackhat.

A member of the mon-killing Elite. The best of the best. The scariest motherfuckers you'd ever hope to never come across.

Well… The second scariest. TH has the Blackhats soundly beat in the "human shit you'd never want to meet" department. But we'll get to that in good time. Right now, I'm talking about Role Call. And how a Warrant Officer Zane Bastard was fucking with due procedure.

I was content to just sit in middle of all those pokemon, glaring at each one in turn, making my hatred of their species known by the bearing of my eyes. Daring just one of them to step forward and challenge that malice.

One minute, twenty three seconds. The Doduo shuffled his feet.

Two minutes, thirteen seconds. The Poliwags began to wither.

Three minutes, thirty four seconds. The remaining Rhyhorn grunted uncomfortably, and averted his eyes. I'd been holding his gaze for over a minute, never blinking or showing any hint of backing down. Nice try, big guy. Now kindly choke on shit and die.

Three minutes, fifty one seconds. My CO coughed. The other Warrant Officers were grumbling. But the fucking Spearows just couldn't take the hint.

Five minutes, fourteen seconds. The Spearows were less than meat. The Growlithes didn't offer a moment of resistance. They started whineing nervously when I glanced at them.

Six minutes, twenty nine seconds. My fellow Warrant Officers were vocalizing their complaints. They wanted a turn at picking something. The CO was getting impatient too, but he knew that I was up to something, so he was content to stand by. I didn't waste my ocular loathing on the Woopers. You can't get hatred through that level of inherent stupidity without some serious domestic abuse to back it up.

Seven minutes, three seconds. The Sandshrews were collectively feeling like a mere two inches of smeared shit. Now for the Bulbasaur.

Seven minutes, forty seconds. The Bulbasaur had blinked plenty, but no look that I could throw was going to wipe that oblivious expression of happiness off of her green face.

Eight minutes, eleven seconds. The Bulbasaur wiggled her haunches excitably.

Eight minutes, fifteen seconds. The Bulbasaur took a hesitant step forward.

Eight minutes, seventeen seconds. The Bulbasaur took a self-conscious step back.

Eight minutes, nineteen seconds. The Bulbasaur took another step forward. Followed by another.

Eight minutes, twenty six seconds. The Bulbasaur was standing two inches away from my crossed legs.

Eight minutes, twenty nine seconds. The Bulbasaur yawned sweetly again, and then proceeded to curl up into my lap.

Eight minutes, thirty seven seconds. The Bulbasaur was softly snoring, and my hand was gently caressing her head.

Eight minutes, forty two seconds. Warrant Officer Zane Bastard stood up with a sleeping Bulbasaur cradled in his arms, and returned to the human line.

Eight minutes, forty seven seconds. Roll called name number six. Number six picked the crestfallen Rhyhorn from the depressed fold, and the Bulbasaur sank her serrated needle teeth into my hand, letting me know that her belly was not for rubbing.

One hour, six minutes, nine seconds. I received the Bulbasaur's official dispatch, wrote my name on the dotted line, put my service tag next to the date, and wrote "Vauban" under "PKMN Callsign."

Despite myself, I was already fostering a strong liking for the little bitch.

That was my Vauban. And when I learned that she had originally been trained for lethal engagement with other pokemon…

I requested immediate redeployment to the Sapper Division, under the premise that I quote:

"Field-Tech is for pussies. Give me the hardcore shit."

Three days later, Vauban and I found ourselves transferred to the Viridian Forest Sapper Training Outpost.

Three months after making pole position on the Sapper trainees' top shit list, I requested "Special Operations Training" from the Outpost's command.

Two hours later, I was beaten senseless, gagged, blindfolded, and hogtied; before being dumped thirty klicks deep into uncharted territory with nothing more than a uniform, a BAMF, my beret, and Vauban's Pokeball.

Special Operations Training. That was a fucking picnic, let me tell you.

It was almost more than I could I chew. It was just about enough to make me choke.

But I don't swallow. And I sure as hell don't spit.

One Big-Ass-Mother-Fucking knife, or a "BAMF," as we Rangers nicknamed them. All the rope that I'd been bound with. The black bandana that had been used to blindfold me, and the kinky gag ball that had been some Operative's fucked up idea of a joke.

About a thousand fucking bruises, one broken leg, and a dislocated shoulder.

Vauban had it even worse.

Two weeks alone in the uncharted region of the Viridian forest.

No radio, no MREs, no medical kit, not even a roll of gauze.

Live? No fucking way. Die? Oh, hell no. Survive? Only option.

We made it, of course. I wouldn't be here now if I didn't. You might have been wondering where I got the chip on my shoulder from? Hint: It wasn't from my old man.

Special Operations Training. And surviving the Viridian forest was only initiation.

I wear that black bandana proudly. There's an insignia colored in red on it, with the Ranger' motto written in silver.

"...In Pace, Ut Sapiens, Aptarit Idonea Bello... "

I was the youngest Operative to undergo Special Operations Training in over two centuries. Most who try it, fail.

Those who fail, die.

So what the fuck was wrong with me? Why the hell would anyone request that kind of punishment?

Because it looks damn good on my resume, and I have ambitions.

After that, I enrolled myself and Vauban in Advanced Combat training, worked my way up the Seniority list, bought the single biggest mistake of my life, Darwin: my morbidly obese Magikarp, and put in a requisition for an additional mon. Hunter-Killer classification. Specifically, a Growlithe, pretrained by the Military.

The rest is fucking history.

And I'll tell you about it later.

Now get that fucking Rattata on the field. Vauban missed lunch today, and I'm sure that domesticated Rattata tastes even better than feral.