Wanna to thank Jakayrta and REV6Pilot for their betaing this chapter so quickly.

0900 Hours, August 15, 0004 ADR

D2-79 Pelipper dropship: Peeko

Private Conner Ohnson lifted his gaze off the standard issue camo pokéglov on his arm. It was lightweight, only four pounds, and covered his forearm from wrist to elbow. He could hear it hum gently against his ear when he scratched the back of his head, comforted to know that he'd been given a working one. It came with the usual functions that all standard issue pokéglovs came with: a dated holographic map of the region, a compass, as well as some tabs on the corner of the screen for him to check any objectives, protocols or instructions.

The pokéglov displayed four contacts, recognizing the three other members of his team. He could tap the image of their faces, bringing up their rank, age, height and weight, among other things. Compared to the pokéglovs that trainers received, his was nothing special.

The dropship's interior was deathly quiet. Although it could easily hold a small platoon, the only other seats taken were the ones beside his own. To his left sat their field medic, and with a single glance he could tell she was doing everything within her power not to fall apart in every passing second.

She had even succeeded in making their SSTSV ballistic vest look good on her. The armor hugged her curves in all the right places. As her eyes moved onto him, his quickly darted to a part of the ceiling. It became a silent game of who could stare at the other without being caught in the act.

Ohnson struggled to piece together her name from what he recalled from her profile. If he looked her up on his pokéglov she would notice, and if he got her name wrong…well he didn't want to get her name wrong. It wasn't his first time seeing those rosy locks and sapphire eyes. He couldn't count how many times he had seen the girl's aunts, sisters, and cousins around the base. Conner knew all too well she was a Joy, but beyond that, he was flying blind.

"Hey, was it me or did Sarge seem not as crazy as they say?"

Ohnson's head spun to meet Private Winston Kane, the one sitting in the seat to his right.

"Yo, shut up, he can probably still hear you!" he hissed.

"No he can't. He's not a trainer, right?" Kane countered.

"Just 'cause he's not with the other trainers doesn't mean he doesn't have amplifications. We don't need you making it harder on the rest of us by saying stupid shit!"

Not enough time had elapsed for Ohnson to make an opinion, and so he decided to reserve his judgment for later. He had heard the rumors about the sergeant, stories of acts that many considered brave and the majority had considered crazy. When Surge's name had come up as a contact on his pokéglov, Ohnson had to admit he had paled.

"Still, for a guy who's supposedly got a few screws loose, he seemed pretty normal. I don't care what they say, he's got nothing on Mendez back at boot," Kane said, just above a whisper.

Ohnson had tried not to think about what training had been like; most of it was a blur, anyway. He remembered it had been difficult, even as he had begun to gain strength and endurance.

Kane had been with him in boot; the training had come easily to him. Before the dampeners had been removed he'd been part of a swim team at school, and the results were evident. Beneath his synthetic Spinarak silk tactical vest was a chiseled body, forged by years of swimming.

It wasn't like Kane and he went way back; they simply recognized each other from the sparing glances when they passed each other in the halls at school. Kane was popular and easily noticed – the only dark-skinned swimmer on the swim team. Ohnson hadn't been much of anything back then – there was nothing special to make him stand out.

They had never really talked to each other back then, and whenever they had at boot camp, it was always about the good old days. It had been a pleasant surprise when they recognized each other on the first day of boot – and also a painful reminder. Ohnson guessed that he was as much a reminder of a life before the dampener removal as Kane was for him.

Before the dampener removal, there had been only school and living with his mom and dad. He had never shown any interest in Pokémon, never once considering the possibility of leaving home to become a Pokémon master, or at least a trainer. His friend Jake had left on his tenth birthday to try his hand at being a trainer, but that had been several years ago.

"He's probably dead now," he thought bitterly, eyes fixated on the metallic gray ceiling above him.

0900 Hours, August 15, 0004 ADR

D2-82 Pelipper dropship: Orville

The air inside the Orville was as cold and sterile as the steel interior and the harsh white fluorescent lights overhead. The dropship had enough seats to carry a small platoon, but there were only three occupants. The members of Bravo Team. The air was almost as silent as the vacuum of space, except for the faint thrum of the ship's massive engines – and the occasional pop that came from Mimoru, the mission's demolition expert. Corporal Vincent, the leader of Bravo Team, watched the blue-haired man across from him sleep without a care in the world as leaned into his – very uncomfortable – seat.

He had briefly skimmed through Mimoru's records on his pokéglov, surprised to find that this seemingly narcoleptic man was still alive, let alone so adept with explosives. A small snot bubble on the man's nose inflated and deflated with every silent snore.

Concerns for the future of the mission rose to the surface of Vincent's thoughts.

Mimoru's records were relatively short, most of it having to do with missions he'd been on, his physical characteristics and his current party roster. There were only a handful of trainers who impressed Vincent with regards to their party, Mimoru's team being added that ever-shrinking list. After going over his party's stats it was no wonder he had survived so long.

'That would explain how his team works so efficiently without being given orders, or at least not any orders we can hear,' Vincent mused, turning his pokéglov off. He lifted his gaze to watch Mimoru's snot bubble pop for the umpteenth time since their mission began. Piercing cerulean eyes suddenly stared at him across the room, half-lidded but no less striking. He instinctively flinched beneath the frigid stare.

Mimoru lazily scanned the room, moving his head at a painstakingly slow rate, never once moving his eyes. Once he was sated by the state of his surroundings, his eyes closed. Within a few seconds, Vincent could hear the man snoring once more and see another snot bubble on his nose.

It wasn't Vincent's first time meeting Mimoru eye to eye, but nothing truly prepared him for being subjected to the man's stare. Vincent had seen victims of the war, soulless eyes that could look at someone and see no difference between the person and the background. The sheen of life was lost in these windows to the soul, leaving husks that had seen the death and destruction of everything that they once held dear. Mimoru's eyes were nothing like that, but if Vincent didn't know any better; he could've sworn the blue-haired man looked bored.

Oddly enough, what he considered strange, the women back at HQ had considered endearing. Despite being twenty-one, he appeared relatively young, his short stature betraying his age. Rather than alienate him, the fact that he never spoke shrouded him in an aura of mystery that the girls found interesting. His cold, disinterested eyes were always present whenever he wasn't dozing off. Even if someone rudely awakened him, no words ever left his perpetually locked lips.

If anything, not once had anyone seen the man in question display any kind of emotion. Apparently, the closest he had ever come to speaking were hand gestures and the occasional nod or shake of his head.

If Mimoru had anything of a social life, no one knew of it. Many simply assumed the atrocities he had seen left him the way he was. Those that had known him for longer said that was not the case.

Nowhere in his records was it stated that he was mute, so the only reason in his refusal to speak rested in a conscious decision not to.

Vincent couldn't complain; command had put him on the team for a reason, aside from the fact that their mission required someone with a field of knowledge in demolitions. After looking more in depth about the missions he had undertaken it came as a bit of a surprise that he had executed each and every one of them perfectly.

Mimoru had been known to take orders from his superiors without question or hesitation, even going as far as to perform above what was expected of him. Through his traits and actions he had earned himself the name "Marionette." Whether he considered his nickname derogatory or not, he still answered to it.

Vincent had no desire to call Mimoru by that, finding it distasteful. Behind that apathetic stare lay a well of knowledge, loyalty and determination not found in a simple puppet. He could adapt to the situation and change himself accordingly, something that the soldiers had probably not given him credit for.

A flash of silver cleaved itself through his focus, bringing his attention to the other trainer in their group. Unlike Mimoru, Vincent knew this trainer well enough to feel no need to look him up. He recognized Hiiro Mizutani from matches they'd had back at the sparring and practice quarters in the base.

'Command must have a sense of humor for putting such polar opposites on the same team.' Where Mimoru frequently dozed off into the realm of slumber, Mizutani looked like he hadn't slept in days. Dark bags had formed beneath his dark mahogany eyes; his salt and pepper hair was hidden behind an equally dark bandanna he was never seen without.

This was ferocity given human form, silently dealing deathblows to an onset of imaginary enemies with every whirl. Not a single sound escaped him as he went through the stances he practiced, as the dropship's interior was wide enough to allow for a full range of movement with both his sword and hooked kunai. Every movement had a purpose. Not a joule of his strength was wasted.

While Mimoru had the emotional range of a brick, Mizutani made no effort to hide that something ate him from the inside. In all the times they had sparred, whether Mizutani won or lost, Vincent had never seen the scowl he wore leave his face. In his years at headquarters, Vincent gradually learned to tell the difference between trainers who had survived. There were those, like Mimoru, that had made it to them unscathed, losing not a single member of their party. And then there were those that had lost nearly half their team or came to them having once been trainers.

Vincent could tell that Mizutani had witnessed things that still haunted him to this day. Sorrow and rage were what fueled his deadly, flowing strikes. If stares could kill, then Vincent would've died by Mizutani's hand a thousand times over. The subtle flames of rage that burned in his eyes, the way his nostrils flared whenever their steel clashed, all made Vincent feel that if they told him he'd slain Mizutani's Pokémon, he would've believed it.

His time on the battlefield had earned him the epithet Black Blade, his signature black katana being one of the only heirlooms of his past. Crimson runes on both sides ran the length of the blade and enveloped the scabbard.

Rumors circulated among soldiers about the sword and its wielder. It was said that the runes weren't actually red, but engraved into the obsidian surface and filled with the blood of Mizutani's victims. Others said the blade had once been white and that the countless bloody battles had stained it red until the blood dried and turned it black, its white guard and hilt proof of its original color.

If any of these rumors held any truth, no one dared ask him directly.

When he wasn't on missions, he spent his time perfecting his technique and maintaining his equipment, forsaking a social life for what Vincent could only assume was atonement for not being strong enough to save what he had lost. In spite of his outward attitude, the women found him equally as enticing as Mimoru. Sadly, Kane and several others had watched dozens of attempts to garner the tiniest bit of his attention fail miserably. It wasn't that he had no interest in a relationship; his unspoken oath to those who had fallen presided over everything else – at least until he felt he had redeemed himself.

With all the hours he put in to his training, it was no wonder he had been able to fight on par with Shogun, the legendary head of the Trainers' Melee Weapons Division. Mizutani's fighting style was swift and fierce. Inhuman reaction times and quick reflexes were needed if one wanted to last longer than a few seconds against him. To the untrained eye, his swings seemed feral and chaotic, yet despite the anger that fueled him, he always maintained a level head. Anger gave him focus, kept him on his toes and on guard for anything that could happen, and he knew they did at a moment's notice.

If Mizutani and Mimoru held anything at all in common, it was their oath of silence, the only difference being the severity of it.

'Maybe that fact that they don't talk much is why they made me the team leader,' Vincent mused with a mental chuckle. He hefted his kwan dao, turning the broad side of the golden blade to face him. Olive green eyes stared back at him, somewhat obscured by tresses of wavy, dirty blonde hair. Vincent slid his hand back, gathering the loose ends and tying it into a pony tail on the back of his head.

There were no creative titles whispered by the soldiers who saw him appear on the battlefield. It wasn't like he hadn't done anything special; he had done loads, but prominent presence didn't always ensure a title. Vincent was fine with that. All that really mattered was keeping those dear to him alive.

He'd been lucky he had lost only a few Pokémon before he reached humanity's first true haven. His face bore no visible scars. He felt confident that he was at least handsome, aside from a much-needed shave, and content no one could see the marks that marred his soul.

He risked a sidelong glance at Mizutani before retreating to his thoughts. The man wasn't exactly the most approachable, yet somehow they managed to charm the women back at the base. He began to wonder if he was doing something wrong, but let the thought die. Now wasn't the time to be thinking of girls.

They had a mission to do. And they had to make sure it went without a hitch.

The mission was simple. As Bravo Team they would infiltrate the Rock Tunnel Cave, deploy a set of sonic resonance bombs in strategic areas and evacuate the premises before the count reached zero. All the while fending off thousands of Zubat, their evolutions, and anything else that coexisted with them in the cave. Once they were done with that, they would rendezvous with Delta Squad along the east coast of Kanto. It sounded simple enough. There was only one truly daunting aspect of the mission: ensure each and every hostile Pokémon was eliminated, lest it became a repeat of the Mt. Moon incident.

Zubat skin had become extremely sensitive to sunlight due to eons of evolution from their ancestors that avoided the ultraviolet rays whenever possible. Centuries of nocturnal hunting stole their eyes, but compensated them with an excellent sense of hearing, allowing the use of echolocation as their main source of knowing what lay in a world of darkness. Their greatest strength was to become their greatest weakness.

If all went according to plan, then the massive shockwave produced by the charges would rip through the Zubat like a Hyper Beam through rice paper. Those that survived would be deafened, and hence effectively "blinded" as well, hopefully dying of starvation with their primary sense taken from them. Even if other Pokémon survived the blast – as long as it wasn't any of the bat's variety – the mission would be deemed a success.

The intended purpose of their mission was to eradicate all hostile Pokémon from the area without completely destroying the cave. Transporting resources from Orre and its factories was no longer cost effective, and resources from Fiore and Almia were already scarce, leaving Command with few options to work with.

Invading Johto was out of the question: Ho-oh had deemed it necessary to have the land heavily guarded. As to why he guarded it so viciously, no one was sure – not even the Legendaries they had contact with. A multitude of theories surfaced, ranging from sentimental value, seeing as it was the region where it all had begun, to the idea that he was preparing something that demanded top secrecy and protection. Regardless, this left headquarters with the only other neighbor region it could exploit. The battles waged on Kantonese soil had left it inhospitable to a majority of wild Pokémon. Even Ho-oh had turned a blind eye to the region, seeing it as not worth his time. Dust, ruins and echoes were all that remained on the land that had been repeatedly taken and retaken by both sides.

In the grand scheme of things, it was humanity's first large military campaign to take back what was left of Kanto. Their mission was one of hundreds that were going on today.

Vincent found himself trying to visualize thousands of Pelipper dropships, Yanmega helicopters, and Skarmory jets moving out all at once across Kanto, letting his imagination help him pass the time until they reached their destination.

0915 Hours, August 15, 0004 ADR

D2-79 Pelipper dropship: Peeko

"Hey Ohnson… You nervous?" Kane asked.

"What do you think?" Ohnson spat back.

"Whoa, chill out man! There's nothing to worry about. From what I keep hearing, Kanto's all wasteland and ruins. Even Sarge said there probably isn't anything out there. Besides, there'll be hundreds of platoons out there with us, surveying other sectors. Who knows, we might cross paths with another squad and they'll join us, or even better, we'll find a trainer! This'll probably be a walk in the park. They wouldn't send fresh rookies like us out to just to die."

'I wouldn't put it past them', Ohnson thought to himself, choosing not to voice the traitorous thought.

Seeing his partner unconvinced made Kane lean back with a sigh. "I'm pretty sure this'll be a walk in the park. How's this? When we come back from this mission I'll take you guys out to dinner."

"What for?" Ohnson groaned.

"In celebration of our first successful mission, of course!" he replied as if it were the most obvious thing on the planet.

"Don't call it successful if it hasn't even started."

"Details," Kane countered with a casual wave of his hand, "What d'ya say? Anywhere you wanna eat. My treat."

It took a second for Ohnson to realize Kane's gaze was no longer directed only at him. Ohnson turned to find the young Joy just the way he had left her when he had retreated into his thoughts. The woman's eyes were to the floor, her white-knuckled hands visibly shaking as she wrung the fabric of her uniform.

Kane turned to the woman and spoke: "Relax, we're gonna be fine. If anything happens, you've got Ohnson, Sarge and me to back you up. That's the first thing they beat us over the head with in boot," Kane said softly.

The young Joy's eyes lifted from her lap and gazed into Kane's eyes. Before she knew, it a small part of her was clinging to a tiny spark of hope. Ohnson knew this was the effect Kane had on people. His voice held no doubts, no hesitation. Those were not merely hollow words to comfort her; he truly believed in what he said.

"So what say you, me, and Ohnson here grab a bite to eat when we get back? I'm payin'. Hell, we can even invite Sarge!" Kane said cheerily.

For a few seconds, nothing but the hum of the dropship's antigravity pods filled the silence that followed.

"Okay," she replied barely above a whisper, giving a nearly imperceptible nod.

"Besides, what could go wro-"

"Don't jinx it," Ohnson hissed.

The young Joy resumed her original position as Kane rambled on about a new subject. She was shivering less now, and if Ohnson didn't know any better, he could've sworn that she'd allowed herself a small smile.