It would be considered odd for a "sarge" to feel uneasy working on a deadly front; it was part of their unwritten job description. Yet Sergeant Major Mackowsky could only grow more puzzled as he tried to shake off the foreign, obstinate feeling that plagued his mind. It made him slightly irritated as his attempts to rid himself of his spontaneous discomfort brought no result, but his constant hellish deployments taught him that explosive anger was as lethal as the shrapnel from the physical blasts. Steeling his mind against the insecurity was no challenge, simply being a matter of mental discipline, a skill in which nearly all NCO's in his branch had a varying mastery thereof. Mackowsky reached for his logs, adjusted his helmet-mounted light and began to write in an effort to dismiss his intellectual stagnation. The sharp scratch of pen on paper drew his focus to an acute point. No serious trouble would come out of a quality check of his armored units, and the additional records may as well provide some assurance.

"Kingfisher 0-0, 0-1, 0-2. Report."

A small scuffle of activity was heard over the radio as the crews of the Siege-class tanks, designated 0, hastily restarted the systems and almost mechanically provided the systematic reports. "All systems online and undamaged. Structural integrity remains positive. Fuel supplies are sufficient, though 0-2 requires replacement of two worn cells."

The info was scribbled down as quickly as it was delivered, a simple matter of reflex. "Acknowledged; authorize fuel cell replacement of 0-2. 1-0, 1-1, 1-2, 1-3, report."

All four class-1 IFVs reported without mishap. Bearing a deceivingly simple design, these support vehicles carried the highest reputation of reliability and effectiveness of any rival carrier; their multipurpose role served as the backbone of most formal armored companies. That is, if there were any remaining and undissolved.

Mackowsky had already concluded that the unease did not stem from a sense of fear. In fact, however modest his forces were, they appeared to be much more fortuitous than expected. All ten vehicles lay in the shine of chemical luminescence, unharmed by any direct combat. Quite lucky indeed, considering how much ground they had traveled without any communication with main base. Finally given some rest, the engines ground to a calm silence as the dust settled likewise.

Ten vehicles. Certainly far from an army. It was reassuring that seven were in one piece, though the prospect of those numbers sustaining throughout the operation was admittedly unlikely, especially on this leg of the journey. Mackowsky wasn't too anxious, as losses were regular and unavoidable. If it came to the destruction of a unit and the loss of its inhabitants, he would worry about it at the time of the event. Right now he had no business stressing over the inevitable, so he simply ensured that necessary preparations would at least fight against the odds. He took a breath, about to call to inspection the final three unchecked vessels when he suddenly paused, pen wavering above his documents.

For a moment he was hesitant. He scanned along the paper again with the point of his instrument, eyes following keenly and verifying the uncertainty. This was odd. There was no mistake in his counting. All ten vehicles were in physical existence. Yet his logs only showed the labels and diagrams for seven: the three tanks and four support. Abruptly he let out the breath he was holding and a grin spread across his face. He tapped the end of his pen on his chin in amusement of his elementary mistake. The official logs only listed the standard vehicles. It was probably security protocol; as far as the world was concerned, neither the three models of the secret unit nor the technology it utilized existed. Yet there could be no denial, for Mackowsky had just come to recognize the composite metal armor he rested on. Ironically, he had forgotten about using the hull of a classified unit as the nearest convenient seat. The development of this Advanced Capability Assault Vehicle had only recently been declassified to the men who would fight alongside it. Or rather, the men who would escort it. Apparently some other division was to acquire these prototypes, and his purpose was to see to it.

In spite of its secrecy, no orders were given against using the ACAVs in combat by his superiors. Perhaps it was due to negligence, but very few things go unnoticed in mission preparation. It was more likely that Mackowsky was expected to present the engineers with a live battle test. Still, it was made it quite clear that they wanted their new toys to arrive intact, so the last thing that he intended was to purposely seek quarrel. He would rather disappoint the developers than risk the security of his fellows. The road was dangerous enough, and a share of conflict would present itself in due time; when it happened, then it would be on his order to deploy these tank hybrids.

He gave himself a mental kick. Focus on the present, dammit! With a sigh of personal disappointment, he forcibly extracted himself from his world of future speculation. They were the vehicles he was trained to use, and to show a bit of love he decided to inspect them personally. It was a breach of protocol to log down classified information anyway, while he only trusted himself to do the job right. Some pilots haven't even received their basic training before the deployment notice.

The papers were shoved into his pack, and Mackowsky drew himself from idle position. Boots clanged on armor as he ducked under the threatening main cannon and opened a hatch on the side of the turret. Being a rather recent model, the assault vehicle would be able to remotely monitor and report nearly every possible status due to its intensive computer network. As convenient as this was, it was also the safest way to assess the surroundings. Just because its prototype low-emission nuclear reactor was named so didn't mean anybody who opened up the engine compartment would be safe from a nasty dose of radiation; it was placed behind several layers of metal for good reason. What Mackowsky didn't expect was the face that turned towards him as the door softly creaked open. The soldier had been sitting back comfortably, feet resting on a dashboard and a folded paper in his hand. When he noticed the presence of another, he straightened up his posture a bit, set down the letter he was writing and gave a small nod in acknowledgement.

"Hail, Mackowsky."

Mackowsky returned the gesture with the same brisk nonchalance. "And you, Olsen."

Olsen silently watched as his fellow field officer paced about the large interior to activate a set of switches and keys. A light beep and a mechanical hum meant the computer systems were at full capacity. As a result of this machine assistance, the crew needed to operate an ACAV numbered only two men; one being responsible for movement and firing while the other relayed intelligence to his copilot, assisted in targeting and established communication with the rest of the convoy. Olsen had worked with comms for nearly the entirety of his civilian and military career, so it was no surprise that he was given the newer role. This also meant that Mackowsky, sharing the same duties, would actively being relaying information between himself, Olsen, and anybody else in the network of vehicles. Although he made a conscious effort to keep his S-List clean, there were some operators who resented his authority, were too stubborn, or simply were quite difficult to talk to. Fortunately, Olsen was not on that list. If anything, the two NCO's had both earned their ranks together, in the same unit; inseparable was more or less the correct statement.

"Third button to the left runs the system diagnostic," Olsen called with a smirk at observing the clumsiness of Mackowsky. "You ought to know that by now, having so much experience."

Mackowsky glared at him with the intensity of a small sun. "And I apologize for not being able to perform a pilot's task as perfectly as you, Olsen."

"A pilot's task? Didn't this same Mackowsky once lecture us on multifunctional dexterity? Maybe Mack should listen to himself more."

"Very funny. Would you like to give me a detailed report on all of our ACAVs, since you happen to know so much about them?"

Olsen shrugged. "Sure, I'll do it to free up your hands. But why don't you take the spare time to actually get some human interaction with the rest of your comrades?"

Mackowsky's shift of tone regarding this matter made it clear that the time for friendly jests was drawn to a conclusion. "Is everything stable? Is there anything that I am unaware of?"

"Don't worry about it, Mack," Olsen said with a tone of dismissal. "No mutinies yet, and based off what I see there won't be any for the rest of the road. Everybody's acting pretty chill, though the odd order you previously issued seems to be causing a small fuss."

Mackowsky's tone further darkened upon the last statement. "Nothing significant about that order... Just a matter of personal... preference."

Olsen sighed in mock resignation. "Come on, you're just being modest. You already have the respect of your men. You think a small change of doctrine will cause you to lose it? Nearly all of your troops are willing to follow you to hell and back, knowing you will gladly lead and command the charge as the soldier beside them. The different uniform and procedures can't change what you have established yourself to be. Everyone knows you're no butterbar. So why don't you accept it yourself?

A silence filled the air as Olsen's question was met without response. After a considerable lapse, Mackowsky finally turned away from the controls and fixed on Olsen with a slightly softened demeanor. "I'll try to make some conversation with the boys, but we're all uncertain if we are clear to proceed with our mission. Once you get a reliable report on vehicle status, go ahead and check in with the sentries we sent out. See if they have any updates on the whereabouts of Berkut. I need confirmation as soon as possible, so take the leisure to give all necessary orders to ensure it gets to me."

Olsen gave a brisk nod. "Consider it done."

"Wait. I'm making it clear that I have no purpose interrupt your writing, Sergeant. Finish up your letter, then report back to me. We're in no rush; nobody with half a brain would dare to engage us."

Olsen waited for the distinct creak of the entrance hatch and the following metallic echo resonating through the interior before betraying a hum of amusement. What letter was Mackowsky talking about? Had Olsen chosen not to play along with the situation, then perhaps Mack would simply figure that he was wasting time by attempting to inspect a vehicle that already had been logged and recorded; after all, who wrote a "letter" inside a parked combat vehicle? Even the tactical, strategic genius Mackowsky had proved himself to be made the most unexpected, blatant yet insignificant errors. It was an odd kind of comic relief, yet Olsen enjoyed it enough to let it run its course.

The silence of the dormant machinery drew Olsen back to his task. Mackowsky had only succeeded so far in activating the main computer; normally the pilots would be responsible for monitoring the detailed statistics of his vehicle, but soldiers of his caliber would not get very far by adhering to strictly normal expectations. Olsen rapidly flipped among the switches and touchpads, and soon the metal frame vigorously shuddered under huge power of its driving engine.

Rather than immediately running the systems check, Olsen returned to his personal station. After a few presses of various buttons, the intelligence and awareness computers he manned started their boot.

Vehicle uplinks established.

The familiar AI tone greeted him as the same text appeared on the visual control panel. All the registered vehicles that he could access were projected on the LED screen, and he cycled through them until only the designated Assault Vehicles were selected. After several more remote actions and confirmation messages, Olsen finally heard the faint, muffled rumbling of sub-nuclear engines from outside the hull that encased him.

Olsen wiped his satisfied smirk as he went live on the officer's comm line and radioed to Mackowsky while he finally initiated the collective systems report. "Incoming status reports from Kingfisher X-0 to X-2. Computer diagnostics running... Reporting no issues. Hull integrities uncompromised, navigations and comms online. All engine radiation is fully contained with no leakages detected. End report, Olsen out."

Olsen didn't expect Mackowsky to respond to his report, and subsequently terminated the transmission with an unnecessary haste. Not because faultless report usually deserved no comment or further action, but rather if Mack had a response, it would certainly be another stubborn inquiry as to how Olsen was able to remotely activate and control all the computer units from a single terminal and gather the report so quickly. Yet, under his breath, Olsen found himself smugly muttering his sole response to the matter. "Trade secret."

Even though the mission itself did not demand haste, a looming sense of boredom was spreading throughout the encampment. Even behind inches of composite plating, Olsen could feel it like an obscene itch. He thought about the sentries that had been placed in the surveillance mission, yet it was turning out more like a waiting mission. Whoever was unfortunate enough to receive the assignment certainly would know the true definition of boredom, idly standing by in a bloody sitzkrieg. Apparently Mack had either wanted a full report on ongoing operations, or simply had taken pity on the two restless guards. At least, he thought he saw two men volunteer the task. He didn't issue the order himself, but a communications expert always takes pride in extraneous situational knowledge. He had their CIR frequencies, but the combat-integrated radios didn't list the specific names. One of them was certainly a Specialist-likely an overwatch. Olsen recalled a name similar to his... Oellin? No... Owens. Yes, Specialist Owens. That was the name. He wasn't particularly sure about the other one; was Owen's partner even human? Olsen seldom worked with Pokemon, so he wouldn't know.

A soft beep confirmed the successful entrance onto the sentries' CIR frequency. Olsen verified the secure connection, then trusted himself to speak. -Helmsman to Guardsmen, report and update, permission granted to terminate radio silence, over.- In casual Legion radio talk, a Helmsman like Olsen typically operated and maintained the CIR networks between infantry and vehicles, while a Guardsman was a technical-sounding term for an active sentry. Small details like the specific jargon were among many superficial attempts to appear as a sophisticated, government military force; perhaps it would be a futile endeavor, but it certainly had a positive effect on the morale of the quasi-contractors

A rough voice replied punctually and calmly o the sudden transition. -Copy, Helmsman. No hostiles, no friendlies in sight, sir. No further progress towards objective since deployment, Helmsman. Guardsman over.-

-Maintain your duty, Guardsman. Owens, take note your immediate mission directives are to be updated shortly. Standby for further transmission, over.-

-Negative, Helmsman. I do not identify as Specialist Owens, over.-

Olsen hesitated. The received voice clearly belonged to a human, audible as the confused pause that set on the radio line. Had there been a change in the sentry shifts? He started to reach for another radio with the intent to inquire on the matter, but his pride stopped him. He would assess the situation himself. -Guardsman, do not play games. Identify yourself immediately.-

-The official Kingfisher squad logs identify me by my callsign. It would benefit you, Sergeant Olsen, to understand I work in a field of communication very similar to yours, yet composing an entirely different battlefield role. I hope you have figured that I am not human by this point. I will respond to the term Echelon, quite fitting for the job of a trained combat-reconnaissance lucario. At this moment, Guardsman Owens is on his CIR, listening intently to this conversation. Although he remains silent, his emotions clearly display a mixed mutual feeling of stifled laughter and bemusement. Thought you would want to know. Awaiting orders, Guardsman over.-

Olsen felt a twinge of anger over the nerve of this operator. He quickly recomposed his emotions however, and all that remained was a defensive scoff.

-Well played, Echelon. Now, since I have formally addressed you, it may also do you well to regard my initial orders on awaiting a change in directive. Helmsman, over.-

-Copy that, Helmsman. Guard-smartass awaiting further command, over.-

The more Olsen thought about it, the more peculiar the situation seemed. Despite his limited exposure to it, he knew what telepathic communication appeared as. The comms line affirmed that Echelon apparently was broadcasting over the radio frequency, rather than transmitting direct thoughts. So, supposedly I am communicating with a biological creature capable of emitting military-grade encrypted signals through an otherworldly cybernet mechanical enhancement of some sort. Either that, or I have to deal with a goddamn talking Pokemon.

As unwritten as the job descriptions were, he was certain that this was not listed.

But as distracting as these occurrences were, the urgency of the matter was far more influential. Olsen steeled his voice in the authoritative manner he was familiar with, ensuring the emphasis on haste. -We need updates on the status of the scouting mission you are assigned to watch for, and we need them now. Do you copy, Echelon? Now is a suitable time to prove to me your capabilities. You will establish contact with Berkut, then report back to me. Helmsman, over.-

-I copy, Helmsman. Do you overrule previous orders to maintain zero communication with agent? Require a response to proceed. Guardsman, standing by.-

-Affirmative, these are your current directives. Do it.-

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Olsen figured that Echelon had shifted his focus to the mission, using whatever telepathic language to communicate with the airborne scout. The extent of the Pokemon's role in the operation was quickly becoming more clear. He was a huge strategic asset, not only possessing the ability to speak between several species but also likely could intercept enemy intelligence as it was transmitted. It gave Olsen a chilly feeling thinking that the same tactics could be used by the opposition; hopefully ignorance or a naïve morality would stop them from doing so.

-Guardsman reporting, contact has been established. Total distance from unit is unconfirmed, uncertainty remains too high for accurate measure. Awaiting further orders, over.-

The response came fairly quickly. Either the task was too easy, or just simple compared to the capabilities of the lucario. Likewise, Olsen attempted to hastily assess and finish the job.

-Acquire and give me the status of the mission. I need an estimated arrival time and the outcome report specifically, over.-

As another brief pause came from the other side, Olsen imagined the series of questions and thought processes the two Pokemon would have in the absence of human conversation.

-Guardsman reporting again, Berk estimates the time of arrival to the 0100 range, give or take an hour. He's caught up in an unexpected storm, the source of the delay, but the documents are secure and the mission is a green light. Over.-

-Excellent work. Notify your companion and retire back to camp. You've done enough tonight.- The transmission was subsequently opened to all channels, and throughout the camp all fell silent. -Alright men, we need around two sentries on west post. The mission is a go, but we have covered enough ground for today. Instead, we now have the time and luxury to wait for a storm-tossed turkey to haul his feathered ass back here by 0100. As usual, the bets will be in the responsibility of "Sergeant" Mackowsky. Good luck Kingfisher, and get some rest. We depart at 0730. Olsen out.-

At this point, Olsen cut off the broadcast and merely contented himself with sitting back in the lounge chair that he had installed as a custom addition. It came out of his own pocket, but cost was quite insignificant compared to the solid pay of the men through lucrative contracts. In general terms, well-paid men tend to be happy men. Kingfisher arguably operated on more of a basis on brotherhood and loyalty, but the hearty morale of his men reflected through the commotion and laughter as they jostled and jeered while moderately adhering to the military protocol that kept order throughout the camp. And all the while, Olsen could hear through the transmitted shouts the distinct accent of Mackowsky, fruitlessly trying to correct the soldiers about this new additional revision to their hierarchy. It was a shame that the humble ones are the ones that live in self-denial; when he would choose to accept the reality, then perhaps Lieutenant Mackowsky could perform to his full potential.

Author's Note: I had some time this weekend, so guess where it was spent? Hopefully I will be able to write the other chapters as quickly as this one, as I am really excited for how this story will turn out. I actually had planned for this to be a one-shot, but I figured that readers would be less than willing to read such a long one-shot, so I guess I'm making this a chaptered story. I hope the plot won't turn out to be too stale and underdeveloped, but here's to the best. If you have anything to say, please drop a review, as they are the best way for me to improve my writing.

Thanks for reading, -Fy