An incessant wind cut through the air as the evening sun retreated, the mixed spectrums of dusk projected onto the desert sands dancing into the enveloping night. Two figures stood firm against the falling darkness, and even as their silhouettes dissolved into the fading horizon they gave evident proof that the two were not ordinary civilians. The mild gusts appeared to be invigorated by the fleeing light. The fine sand under their boots swirled with growing force, picked up by the winds and thrown indiscriminately. Neither party gave complaint to the worsening conditions of the environment, nor did they have any reason to. The dust blowing against the adequate layers of their combat fatigues was simply an annoyance made relatively peripheral by years of combat conditioning training and even more of field deployment.
Both soldiers were well aware that actions, not complaints, solved issues. Wordlessly, the taller figure gave a curt nod of acknowledgement to his squadmate, who in return released his weapon and reached for a small cylindrical object fastened to his equipment. A small twist activated a chemical reaction within the device, and the emerging spark quickly blossomed into a vivid flame-like projection. This certain ChemFlare model was originally designed for long-term wilderness survival by unfortunate refugees of war, providing up to forty eight hours of light and heat, though ironically it saw more usage by the ones who fought the battles and displaced the civilians. The flare did not discriminate between its patrons however, and within minutes an adequate warmth pulsated from the source and brightly illuminated the area it was placed. This change in environments did not seem to reassure its user, who just as quickly shouldered his rifle and scanned his surroundings anxiously as he had done and in the darkness.
The other soldier seemed quite amused by his fellow sentry's tense behavior, and chuckled softly as he produced a small package from his pocket. The flare fought valiantly against the night in a victorious battle and proved it with an near-absolute illumination against its intangible foe. Its white light radiated in a respectable radius, though it met with different responses. The taller one seemed somewhat indifferent to the improvement but if not plainly contented. His height was noticeably greater, about a foot or so difference between the two. The high-grade torch revealed the advanced jet black, gray and blue battle dress colors standard to operatives of his company. Patches on his upper arm identified him as Owens, advanced field infantry, overwatch grenadier. Other military corporations unfamiliar with his particular designation tags could likely identify his battle position by the mixed explosive armament festooned on his belt as well as the underbarrel munition launcher attached to the belt-fed light machine gun that he carried so nonchalantly. His right shoulder region bore the insignia of his unit, a crimson bordered white fabric emblazoned with the broad outline of a menacing avian, its claws grasping both a silver halberd and a high-caliber tactical rifle. There was no doubt to the half-depleted contents of the package he held for either of them, but whether out of respect or politeness Owens found himself making a verbal offer regardless.
He held the open end of the case out to his field partner, and made an effort to keep his voice level and casual. "Care for a smoke?"
Through the sizzling of the flare Owens could naturally feel him scoff, an old expression of half skepticism, half implied ignorance. "Are you asking the appropriate question?"
A newer soldier would have certainly been puzzled by his response, less of the content but more of the tone of deliverance. He generally chose to communicate without an audible sound, yet they always managed to appear for those whom the words were directed. In a dark environment he appeared as a normal soldier despite his smaller build; his pack, equipment and rifle making it a completely valid and reasonable assumption. It would be the clarity of light that would reveal his affiliation through the special insignia, identical to the one on Owens and the rest of the troopers of his similarly named unit. His battle dress masked most identifying aspects of his build, the only visible evidence to his true species being a sleek canine snout, a series of odd appendages protruding from the base of his helmet and a tail of moderate length. His arm was decorated with a series of identification patches, though a Pokeball-esque shape was affixed where the soldier's rank would be and his tag only gave the codename of Echelon. Despite the known aura abilities of lucario and the effectiveness of them in trainer battle situations, usage of Pokemon as infantry units were not popular if not considered strictly taboo. Kingfisher Unit was not the task force to be concerned with public opinion, however, so they utilized whatever fighting force proved to be potent on the battlefield. The only problem that persisted was an internal issue, and many more Pokemon would see combat if they had not fled during the rigorous training courses. To make it to front lines, "drafted" individuals would not only need a skill set but a uninhibited personal dedication towards whatever cause drives mercenary forces; Echelon was no exception. His physical stature well correlated with his rare background; under the folds of his uniform he was considerably more bulky and fit than other lucario, as well as possessing a height not usually found in his species.
Owens never knew whether his fellow operative refused in a moral context or some other reason, though wisely chose not to press the matter. His thoughts soon were shattered by the sharp sounds of gunfire, though the distinct sounds of bullets whistling away from his position instinctively suppressed any unnecessary response except to flip down his dual-sensory vision, lower his profile, and slide his finger closer to the trigger. Echelon fired another controlled burst, the powerful tracer rounds leaving behind the faint scarlet trail as they streaked across the desert and harmlessly embedded themselves in the ground with a noticeable spray of fine sand. This time it was Owens to raise an eyebrow in skepticism as he observed the intended target burrow out of harm's crosshairs. "Was that really a threat?"
Echelon spat quite audibly, a human trait that he had picked up through the observation of his buddies. "A damned nuisance, that's what it was. The world wouldn't miss it."
Owens chose not to comment on the accuracy-related pun. He knew the problems that diggersby had caused since their unplanned introduction to the ecosystem, and likewise didn't hold any objections against putting tungsten into those mutant rabbits. But Echelon didn't openly communicate often, and Owens hoped for a conversation to avoid the clutches of boredom. "But was it really a threat?"
"Directly? I'm not sure, and honestly I don't care. By the time it gets in reach to inflict any significant damage on its own it'll have to deal with a damn large hole in its chest. They probably don't even have enough discipline to attack us in a swarm."
"Always analyzing, aren't you?"
Echelon took on a thoughtful expression, then chuckled inwardly. "Coulda been an agent. Opponents often get desperate against an infamous enemy. Next day we wake up, find ourselves knee deep in our own shit because I missed a mutant rabbit spy who managed to compromise our whole operation. Indeed."
"You think it noticed us?"
"Probably not. It noticed the bullets, the impending death, and regardless of whether they hit or not I trust that those animals have enough survival instinct to not pop their heads out again."
"Those are animals? You do realize that you-"
Owens abruptly stopped when he noticed the lucario glaring at him. The angry gleam in his eyes reflected into his unusually spiteful tone. "Do not call me an animal. Do you think that I enlisted, on my own decision, to be regarded as an animal in a battlefield of men? We both know of the crimes we see in the midst of war. Civilian deaths. Atrocities. Rape. Soldiers cannot be saints, and those who commit the crimes deserve to be executed as animals. But to regard me as one because of my species, simply put, pisses me off. We are all born animals, though some have the convenient benefit of civilized society. How I think and act that discerns me from any primitive Pokemon, and I'd hope you would notice by now. No trainer-pampered, spoiled Pokemon will ever understand the sweat of having to trek miles after miles without the comfort of a Pokeball or the sustenance of a hand-fed food source. You think they can last in a battlefield their foes attack to kill? The only battlefield they know is one in which they are useless without orders and the loving hand that feeds. Their idea of characters is to have no self discipline or strict training, with the only consequences of failure being masked by the effortless recovery from the superficial wounds their adversaries may inflict. I'd just as soon kill myself than be affiliated with those scum."
Owens had no immediate response, though inside he knew that Echelon was correct. The term Echelon was so militaristic; outside his codename it seemed that he had no personal identity, an issue that simply couldn't be solved. A period of silence hung for a long moment between the two. Owens took the time to light his cigar in the respite of discussion and breathed in a deep wisp of the chemical smoke. His exhaling breath to clear the arid gas betrayed a sincere sigh of resignation. "I'm sorry, Ech."
Echelon shook his head, the anger in his eyes fading as quickly as it appeared. "The fault was mine. I lost control. In shouldn't have gotten angry over such a petty matter. I behaved like an animal. It is me who should be a apologizing."
The tactful course of action would be to leave the conversation at this note, and both silently agreed to do so. Owens was content with with enjoying his cigarette, the wisp of smoke slowly rising and drifting with the breeze. Echelon amused himself with the crisp click that echoed from the interior of his rifle as he repeatedly cycled his fire switch through single, burst, auto and safety. It is in this state of unawareness that causes time to pass in seemingly accelerated rates, and even even the lucario found himself lowering his guard despite the usual threat of enemy marksmen. Although he chose not to use any extrasensory equipment, Echelon knew that the multipurpose optics that were issued to his unit were by far superior to any other known technology. With an passive sensor range of about a mile and an active zooming capacity of just short of two, Owens could easily cover any negligence on his comrade's fault. Of course, if a threat did present itself at those ranges it would be safely distanced from any return fire; moving, aware targets just happen to be more difficult to cleanly pick off in such conditions, and Echelon felt no need to even consider such a risk. The small critter that had escaped his bullets would bother him more than hostile sharpshooters. Nonetheless,Echelon glanced over his shoulder, noting the distant flares that not only illuminated the makeshift camp in which his unit lay dormant but brought to reality the high-risk task that they were assigned. They were a mere force, not an army constantly backed by reinforcements and supplies from the back lines. If the operation was compromised, the ensuing bloodshed would leave no chance of triumph, a grim reminder to the potential consequences of every action.
Echelon adjusted his helmet and shook his head in an effort to clear his doubt. He was to stand watch, not stand guard. Military action in this region of desert wasteland had never been recorded, and they had no plans of being the first. The odds of armed combat tonight were next to none. He had no idea how long he would have to stand until he would witness the damn bird return from his mission. Echelon had no perception as to the remaining time of his position. They would either fulfill their task or receive a change in orders. Inquiring alternative courses of action would be pointless.
The night dragged on, the soft whistle of the dusty wind breaking the silent gaze of the watchmen.
Author's Note: This will be my attempt at a military-themed story, but also to establish some background that will likely recur in future stories. Action will likely be mediocre at first, but will likely build up in future chapters where there hopefully will be an actual battle. I just have a bad habit of over-establishing prefaces, I guess. Please leave feedback, it always helps me improve. I plan to actually update this, as I have been planning to write this for quite a while, but I'll see where it goes. Hopefully it won't crash and burn.