Chapter One: Irritations
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
A deep brown eye opened, bloodshot from a lack of sleep, and immediately glared with intense irritation at the large, tropical leaf above, dripping with the dew collected in the cool morning air.
Drip.
Drip.
The red and brown eye narrowed, its owner's thoughts murderous, as a hand, clad in a leather glove of the deepest black, reached up, swatting at the source of its annoyance.
The leaf dripped harder as the dew upon it was disturbed.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip.
The eye closed, exasperated, as the droplets of water continued to patter innocently against its owner's peaked cap.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip.
Slowly, as if a swift movement would encourage the wide leaf, his gloved hand reached towards his belt, and finding what it sought, unclipped the pistol from its holster.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip.
Once again the eye opened, focusing entirely upon the enemy that disturbed its master's rest. The hand rose, the weapon it held glinting against the first rays of sunlight filtered through the lush tropical canopy above.
The leaf continued to drip, ignorant of the doom that silently came nearer.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip.
Leather creaked as the hand clenched against the pistol's grip, tightening its finger against the trigger.
Drip. Drip.
Drip…
The thunderclap that followed tore loudly through the stillness of the valley, the sudden blast startling the native wildlife. Alarmed bird calls and the chatters of terrified rodents assaulted the ears of the exhausted shooter. The bloodshot eye drew slowly shut, resigned to the ungodly discord that disturbed it. But at least the damned low hanging branch above didn't have a leaf to disturb it any longer. The tired one grinned inwardly with satisfaction at that thought.
What the weary shooter had failed to notice was that the leaf above, while no longer covered with enough water to drip, was still attached to the branch by a sliver-thin fiber. A fiber that was gradually being torn apart by the weight of its burden…
The damp, heavy leaf fell, straight down, onto the insomniac's face.
Splat!
Giving voice to a muffled curse, the now furious being's hand ripped the leaf from its master's face, and threw it to the sandy ground. Sitting up slightly, the enraged man leveled his pistol at the limp leaf, finger tightening once again on the trigger...
But, there, the man stopped, frozen like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. What the hell had he been doing? Almost ruefully, he released his tight grip on the pistol, and slipped it back into its holster.
Before immediately whipping the weapon out and emptying the remaining bullets into the fallen leaf.
For the second time that morning, thunder disturbed the valley. What few animals that had quieted since the first shot lifted up their distressed and terrified voices once more in a wild cacophony of panic. Lowering himself back into his lying position, the tired man closed his eye, and tried in vain to edit out the noise.
Gradually, the uproar quieted, the only sounds that disturbed the exhausted individual becoming the occasional call of a waking bird, or the chirping of an insect. The man smiled contentedly, finally beginning to drift into the gentle embrace of blessed sleep.
In the forest, a twig snapped, accompanied closely by the crunch of heavy boots on dry, sandy earth. The footsteps drew closer, louder, and a rock clattered as it was kicked against a palm tree. A surprised yell, along with a stream of cursing, announced that the person approaching was a clumsy man, and one who seemed to believe that trees were capable of (and should be) performing various obscene and biologically impossible acts. Evidently, he had tripped over some poor exposed root.
Exasperated and furious, the man's brown eye opened, examining this latest disturbance.
The man was of a reasonable height, though his large girth gave the impression that he was shorter than he truly was. His belt, even at its loosest, strained against his round, barrel-shaped torso. His once-white uniform was dusted with sand and dirt, a result of his fall. His thinning hair was clumsily concealed beneath a lumpy red beret which looked disturbingly similar to a piece of road kill. A full, brown beard masked his multiple chins, quivering as he shouted all manner of abuse at the uncaring root.
The one attempting to rest sighed loudly, startling the man, who immediately ceased his insults of the offending root, and snapped into a rigid salute.
"Sir! I didn't see you there. The men and I were worried about a bunch of gunshots we heard earlier. Was there an enemy?" the fat man asked nervously, evidently ashamed that one of his superiors had heard his coarse language.
"Yes, Maxfield, there was an enemy, though it has been dealt with. And I assume that by 'the men and I', it was really just you."
"Uhhhh…" Maxfield stalled, his mind sluggishly working to invent some semblance of an intelligent denial, and failing utterly.
"I'll take that as a yes." The man on the ground said smugly.
Maxfield shuffled his feet, opening his mouth to voice a question, but was cut off before a word passed by his lips. "What is it, Maxfield?" the man interrupted, his tone that of an exasperated adult addressing a particularly annoying child.
"Sir, if there was an enemy, then where's the body?" Maxfield blurted out, and then instantly regretted it, as questioning one's superiors typically does not improve one's paycheck. That and the man before him had a particularly nasty reputation for being violent towards those who questioned his authority.
The feared rebuke did not come, though the alternative was puzzling. Without a word, the man lying before him pointed at the ragged, damp remains of a tropical leaf.
Maxfield frowned, his face scrunching up in concentration as he tried to figure out what the man was trying to say. Gradually, an understanding formed in his mind, a perfect explanation. After thinking on his theory for another few seconds, he decided that, yes, it was the only possible explanation.
Nearly a full minute of silence passed before he had completed his astounding theory, and was willing to share it aloud. "You turned him into a leaf!"
The tired man sat up from his lying position under the low hanging branch, rubbing his burning eye. "No, you imbecile! Do you actually think that I'd leave a body out in the open to be stumbled upon by some idiot hiker, or worse, you?"
An everyday hiker, if he stumbled upon a body, would go straight to the nearest police station. Maxfield, fool that he was, would not only go straight to the authorities, but he would also turn himself in and give a detailed description of every law he'd broken as well as the names of his co-conspirators.
Confusion swept over the rotund imbecile, followed by another revelation.
"I get it! You hid the body under the leaf," Maxfield beamed, proud of his powers of reasoning. If only fools could realize their own stupidity….
His moment of pride was interrupted when his commanding officer's face came out of the shadows of the leaves. Maxfield flinched, all his previous thoughts (or lack thereof) disappearing.
The man that rose to his feet before the grunt stood a full head taller than his underling. His bearing closely resembled that of a grand aristocrat, back straight, with head held high, as he felt that the entire world was his to gaze down upon. Especially Maxfield.
The uniform he wore complimented this posture well, its crisp white cloth, trimmed with black, lending him the air of a natural leader, born to lead his "fellow" human beings for the glory of the great empire that was himself.
At his belt was a matching pair of dirks, one at each side, their ivory handles ornately carved into the shape of a roaring beast. The specific creature meant to be portrayed was unidentifiable, however; they were well worn with use. Strapped just behind the dirk at his left side was a holster, the aged pistol it held well oiled and cared for; obviously it was of great importance, and use, to the officer.
The firearm caught Maxfield's eye especially, as it always did. The weapon was not of Orre manufacture; it was too refined, too well-made to be one of those cheap, easy-to-buy weapons produced in the war-torn region. No, it was an old weapon, forged before the United Regions' Council had chosen to outlaw the use of lethal weaponry, advocating the use of stun rounds, tranquilizers, and shock bullets. This one had apparently managed to escape being melted down, persisting where weaker weapons would have failed.
It was on more than one occasion that Maxfield had considered stealing the precious firearm, but a single glance at the twin blades at the commander's belt was always more than enough to discourage anything more than wishful daydreams.
The man's face was by far his most striking feature, however. Pale skin clashed with a full head of deep black hair, upon which was seated a majestic officer's cap, with a silver insignia, shaped into an elaborate "G", seated just above its small bill. A thin mustache graced his upper lip, a neatly kept forest upon his face. He was most certainly handsome, as though carved from stone into perfection by some great sculptor.
However, this exquisite visage was marred; the sculptor's work, whether by neglect or intention, had gone unfinished.
For on the left side of the man's face, there was a pallid expanse of skin where an eye should have rested.
Maxfield stared in horrified fascination at his commander's "missing" eye. Was it just his imagination, or was that really a second, underdeveloped eye glaring back at him from under the pale covering of skin? Feeling sick to his stomach, Maxfield looked away.
The one-eyed commander was almost amused by the grunt's reaction to his little defect. The expression of mixed revulsion and terror lent the overly fat man a look comparable to those of the gargoyles on the Foreign Temple in Hearthome City. The fact that Maxfield did this nearly every time he saw the commander's face only added to that.
"Well, do you or do you not?"
"D-do I wh-what, s-sir?" Maxfield stammered.
The amusement leaving him, commander sighed. What could possibly have possessed his "superiors" for them to deem it necessary to send this buffoon, along with the rest of his ilk, to assist his squad in their mission? He barely suppressed a bark of harsh laughter at that thought. As if Maxfield and the other grunts could possibly serve any other purpose than cannon fodder!
"Never mind, Maxfield."
"Alright."
The brown eye glared at him.
"I-I mean 'Alright, sir'!"
Nodding his head slightly in approval at the correction, the one-eyed man turned away, walking briskly in the direction from which his underling had approached, up the side of the sparsely forested valley. Maxfield hesitated for a brief moment before following, jogging to catch up. By the time he reached the commander's side, he was already wheezing and out of breath. Gasping for breath, he spoke. "When will we…begin the…attack, sir?"
Not sparing a glance at his out of shape "companion", the officer continued onwards, his black leather boots crushing the undergrowth beneath his unrelenting feet. "What is the condition of your men?"
Maxfield, having caught his breath somewhat, replied immediately, "They're impatient for this operation to get into full swing, sir. Most seem to be having trouble dealing with this tropical heat; too used to that chilly homeland of ours, see. And a few are still adjusting to Sevii Island Chain time zone, but they're just as ready for action as the others." The rotund man paused, leaning against a palm tree for a moment and wiping sweat from his brow before continuing. "The grunts assigned to Fire-types are slightly worried that their Pokémons' nervousness about fighting on a small island will reduce combat efficiency, though."
Maxfield did have one redeeming quality, at the very least; his ability to assess a situation was, incongruously enough, useful. Whether it was enough to compensate for everything else about him, well, that was an entirely different matter.
"Their concerns are unwarranted. The majority of this operation has no need of Fire-types anyway, seeing as we are going to be indoors." Pausing, the man reached into a small pouch on his belt, retrieving an unadorned, black eye patch, which he then positioned over the blank space where anyone else would have had a second eye. After adjusting it for a few moments, he continued. "Additionally, I do not believe that burning down the building we are attempting to infiltrate shows good judgment. Order them to act as the rear guard."
Having left the tree line and reached the top of one of the ridges that formed the valley, the commander stopped, surveying the vast expanse of ocean stretched out below. The other islands in the Sevii Archipelago stood dark against the indigo background. A cool breeze, smelling of salt and fish, brushed against him, carrying away the sweltering heat of the morning sun. Lowering his gaze, he followed the blinding white beach with his eye, curving in a long crescent around the bay. At the end of the beach sat their target, hidden amongst the tropical vegetation that ruled the island chain.
It appeared quite small on the outside, a pair of large boat garages extending into the water, with a two story building located slightly inland, just topping the surrounding tree canopy. The thick concrete walls were laced with vines and creepers, digging their thin roots into the cracks of the "old" walls. Broken windows gaped out at the pair, their jagged teeth shimmering in the sunlight.
Of course, if one were to tear away the dilapidated exterior, one would discover that the buildings were nothing but a façade, the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
The schematics supplied by their informant had revealed that just inside the boat garages was a pair of concealed doors. These heavy steel gateways then opened into an even larger boat garage, tunneled directly into the island. Below this was a convoluted labyrinth of white hallways and research labs, training facilities and barracks, connected to the surface by the false building and decrepit garage.
The labs.
What they contained was his entire purpose for being on this island, the reason for being summoned from his quarters at an ungodly hour in the night and rushed to this speck of filth on the great sea, with a group of imbeciles and a half-equipped squad.
Damn this island! And damn his so-called "superiors!"
He'd read the reports on the way; he knew what they were after, the power that hovered at their fingertips… He recognized the importance of this mission, the precedence it held over all other activities.
Team Galactic was on its last legs.
It was no secret. The sledgehammer blows dealt by the joint efforts of Team Rocket and their Magma allies had cost the Sinnoh-based organization almost everything. The illegal diamond and coal mining operations just south of Oreburgh had been totally wiped out, the intricate tunnels and mineshafts destroyed by explosives planted by Rocket agents.
Their research center in the Great Marsh, that had given them the edge they had needed to defeat much of their competition in the past, was no more as well, demolished in a night raid by Magma ground teams.
Many of the siphoning stations that leeched electricity from the national power grid had been put out of commission, causing power failures in many of their labs, and forcing the creation of an electricity ration.
Poaching operations throughout Galactic-held territory were shut down by Magma and Rocket bounty hunters, eager to make a profit from turning in poachers, and establish their own hunting grounds.
Supply depots, weapon caches- raided and emptied by looting Rockets and Magmas.
The Geothermal Power Plant in Stark Mountain had also been wiped off the map, thanks to a forced eruption of the volcano at the hands of Team Magma.
Not all was lost, however.
The main base in Veilstone City, one of their four remaining strongholds in the Sinnoh region, stood proud against the onslaught, a beacon of hope for those that remained.
The hidden research facility in Eterna still churned out new, cutting-edge technologies and medicines to be sold by their more legitimate cover business, Starlight Industries.
The archaeological dig sites lurking deep within the Solaceon Ruins had already located multiple artifacts that possessed strange properties, a wealth of Elemental stones, and ancient inscriptions that hinted at the locations of other ruins.
And finally, the Underground, the intricate cave system of tunnels and way stations, storage rooms and weapons stockpiles, that provided the remnants of Team Galactic with mobility, training facilities, smuggling opportunities, and most importantly, secrecy.
In addition to the resources in Sinnoh, their holdings in the Orange and Sevii Islands were still intact, the vast smuggling network relatively unhindered by interference caused by Team Galactic's multitude of enemies. But even now, the Rocket gang was encroaching on that stronghold, as evidenced by the base before him.
Plus, the mining being conducted by Starlight Industries on Iron Island was still producing copious amounts of ore for the refineries at Fuego Ironworks, providing Team Galactic with the additional funding required to barely stave off disbandment.
Even with their core bases and operations intact, though, Team Galactic was still close to a complete breakdown.
But the outcome of this mission could very well give the remnants of Team Galactic a second chance, and cast those pathetic rival Teams out of the Sinnoh region for good!
However, as much as he respected his leader, Cyrus Galaxiat, he did not understand the reasoning behind sending along Maxfield and his bunch of stooges, or why his squad had only been given half the normal kit for a mission of this caliber. Maxfield was highly incompetent at performing even the most basic of tasks, and the Pokémon that were assigned to the grunts weren't powerful enough to prove useful at anything other than attempting to drown their enemies under the weight of numbers.
As though fate had decided to reinforce his musings about the leader of the grunts, a strong gust of the salty air blew Maxfield's crimson beret off his balding head, carrying it to the edge of the promontory from which they viewed the bay. The fool immediately dove after it, barely snatching it out of the air as it was caught by another breeze. Having saved his precious hat, Maxfield then proceeded to endanger himself, teetering precariously on the edge for a long moment before slowly backing his unsteady lump of a body away and onto safer ground. Walking backwards, he was unable to see what lay beneath his feet, and tripped against a protruding stone, landing with a hefty thump on his rear.
Predictably, this was followed immediately by a storm of profanity so harsh, even the coarsest of sailors would have withered under such a verbal assault.
The commander's eye narrowed. It was almost as if he was meant to fail this mission. Immediately, he banished the thought to the depths of his mind. It would only serve to distract him during the ordeal to come. Useless speculation was neither an asset in battle, nor in peace. Speculation bred dissent, and such thoughts would only serve to weaken his resolve.
Then, he almost, almost, smiled. Let the Fates rig this mission against him, let them do their very best to make it impossible to complete. Just let Giovanni work himself into a frenzy designing situations that no man could come out of alive. Let them feel the exhaustion that he felt.
He'd beat whatever odds that were stacked against him, for he was greater than any and all others. He was the best.
His thoughts of glory and triumph were interrupted, however, by a low, sharp voice, the speaker directly behind him. "Commander Nebula? The rest of the squad and I are wondering when the operation is gonna start."
Nebula did not bother to turn around. He recognized the voice instantly; having long since memorized the voices of his squad. But this voice was different in his eyes, special even amongst his elite team.
The voice belonged to his best scout, Enos Grimsby, and quite likely the only truly great man present on the island other than himself.
Waving a gloved hand dismissively, Commander Nebula spoke. "Maxfield, you have your orders. Leave us."
"Yes, sir!" the rotund grunt agreed hurriedly, all too happy to oblige; members of Nebula's infamous squad were well-known for their ruthlessness and general contempt of grunts. Nervously eyeing the scout, he waddled away in what he believed was the general direction of camp, bearing his superior's instructions to the men.
Commander Nebula and Enos listened to Maxfield's retreating and overly heavy footsteps, both briefly wondering how long it would take for the man to realize that he was going in exactly the opposite direction of the encampment.
A lull in the breeze was accompanied by silence between the two men.
When he was sure that the grunt was out of hearing range, Enos grinned, and then burst into gales of uncontrollable laughter. "Did you see his face? That was the best one yet! How high do you think he jumped? Four feet, was it?"
Nebula allowed himself a thin smile; a miniscule amount of childish amusement at his friend's laughter. Quite an indulgent action, truth be told.
The young man standing before the Commander was just as tall as he was, if not slightly taller. Though with the boy slouched like that, it was difficult to judge. His uniform was in a far messier condition than even Maxfield's, stained as it was with all manner of dirt and grass, and interwoven with pieces of camouflage netting. In fact, it was barely recognizable as a uniform; it seemed more akin to a bush that had uprooted itself and gone for a stroll.
The scout's face was little better, his tan skin just visible under the many layers of gray face paint and accumulated grime. Bright, wide eyes gazed back at Nebula, accompanied by a broad grin that spanned his entire face from ear to ear. His characteristic stubble gave him the look of an older man, though in truth his nature was contrary to his appearance.
Enos was the wild card of Nebula's group, the unpredictable hurricane that disrupted the squad's harmony as much as he preserved it. Of course, his capricious tactics and ploys were unsurprising, if one considered his origins. After all, Orre natives were well known for their… unique personalities.
Although several years Nebula's junior, the scout was quite nearly his equal, in both intelligence and skill. In fact, the one thing that was holding Enos back was his almost childish attitude and lack of ruthless devotion. Yes, he always completed the tasks he was assigned; yes, he never disobeyed orders. But he never caused harm when he did not have to, even if doing so would simplify a mission or eliminate a problem.
His loyalty to Nebula was an obstacle to his advancement as well; he had turned down several promotions simply to stay with the squad. Touching as the gesture was for the Commander, it continued to instill Nebula with a sense of... what? Disappointment? Pride? Both?
Enos' laughter had quieted to light chuckles, and he gave a low whistle when he saw the Team Rocket base. "Ooh, do you think they'll let us stay the night? I could kill for a shower right about now!" the young man joked.
Nebula's response was a slight roll of his eye, followed by a terse, "You might just have to."
Enos gaped, his hands raised in mock horror. "Legends forbid! Sir, was that a joke?"
Another roll of his eye. "No."
The scout released a gusty sigh of exaggerated relief. "Good, you had me worried there for a moment. I thought that maybe the real Commander had been kidnapped by Clefairy from outer space and replaced by a robotic copy or something! You know, like in that one movie?"
Nebula raised an eyebrow, glancing quizzically at his young companion. "Kidnapped by Clefairy? Replaced by a robot? Enos, my friend, you seem to be losing your touch. Last year you would've said that a Ditto had stolen my DNA, Transformed, then shot me and hid the body."
Enos shrugged. "Yeah, well, that one was getting old, so I needed a new theory. Why, do you want me to pick a different one? I came up with one that involves a crazy Charmander, a ninja, and some high explosives a little while back."
Several long moments of total silence passed, then, "…A ninja."
"Yeah. Everything's better with ninjas!" The scout grinned, then struck a pose that might have passed for some form of karate, were it not for his horrible posture.
Nebula pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "Grimsby, would you care to remind me why I took you under my wing all those years ago, and why I've bothered to tolerate your lunacy ever since?"
The immature scout took a minute of thought, filled with exaggerated humming and hawing. On any other day, Enos' behavior would've been infuriating. Fortunately, the Commander's lack of sleep prevented him from wasting the energy required to gain the scout's two second attention span, and hold it long enough to rebuke him.
"To tell you the truth, I don't know myself. So do you wanna hear it?" was the scout's belated, enthusiastic reply.
Another sigh. "Perhaps later." Before the eccentric teenager could start spouting more nonsense, he changed the subject. "You had a question, didn't you? Concerning when the assault is set to begin?" More than likely, Enos had several other questions; what with the secrecy involved in their deployment, it was to be expected.
"Yes. But the time for the attack isn't the only question that I have." When Enos spoke, his tone was hushed, lacking the playful quality it had possessed mere moments before.
Turning his back on the cliff edge, Nebula answered his scout. His serious tone offered no chance for the scout to continue his antics. "I know, Grimsby, I know. But to answer your first question, I believe that the best time for us to make our move is dawn tomorrow. We'll catch them off-guard and groggy that way. Inform the rest of the squad, if you would, and have them advance to the edge of forest, just out of sight from the facility."
Pausing for a moment, the Galactic commander gathered his thoughts, stroking the familiar hilt of one of his dirks absentmindedly.
"In addition, rig a set of traps-Voltorb mines and pitfalls, preferably-twenty feet or so from the main surface entrance. It's on the larger building, right down there." He gestured at the inland structure. "That should slow any pursuit when we leave. And order the grunts with Fire-types to dig in just beyond the traps; they'll be useful for setting up a barrier of flame to deter a hunting party afterwards. Combined with the firepower our Forretress sniper teams will provide, I'm certain that we'll be able to hold out until the helicopters come to lift us off this blasted island. Understood?"
Enos nodded, and a lock of unkempt hair fell, obscuring his eyes. He brushed it away with a swift flick of his bony wrist.
"Good. Now, what's your second question?" The commander had already guessed what it would be, but he chose to reaffirm his assumption, to be sure that he wasn't losing his touch at reading the moods of his men.
Quietly, the elite scout voiced the question that was being asked by the rest of the squad, indeed, by the entire infiltration group. "Sir, what exactly are we here for?"
It was just as he had predicted. No surprise there.
Turning away from Enos, Nebula continued his examination of the facility. "Grimsby, this mission requires utmost discipline, as well as secrecy. If I were to allow you that information, along with the rest of the squad, would you still be capable of fighting at your best?"
Of course he would answer his scout whatever his response would be; he alone held the definite right to know, after all they had been through together. Especially since the mission was so similar to that one time so long ago…
Enos hesitated for a moment before answering, choosing his words cautiously. "Sir, I feel that knowing what we're here to do will get rid of the doubts that many of us are having about this mission. And I for one, would rather be warned beforehand of any dangers that we're gonna face than by walking into them myself."
The Commander nodded in approval of his scout's answer. "Enos, we are here to retrieve the seeds of a god."
"Sir?"
Nebula slipped one of his dirks out of its sheath, and tested its glinting edge with his gloved fingertip. "Tell me, friend, do you recall the New Island mission?"
Okay, this whole glitch thing has been very annoying, especially since I've had this ready for quite a while. :P In any case, I hope it gets sorted out soon. :)
A good friend of mine, Stolloss, gave me a link thingy to let me post. Thanks Stolloss! *glomps*
Another round of applause to FirebirdXoX, Fear The Pika, and Stolloss for helping me get this thing edited~ :D Thank you!
...and of course the next chapter will take forever because, not only do I write slow, I write incredibly slow! :P Don't worry though. I'll have it up eventually. In the meantime, it'd be nice to get a few reviews. :) Thanks to Macy Webber, Fear The Pika, and Shocking Revelation for reviewing. I appreciate it!
Breath deep, seek peace. -Dinotopian saying