One of the subtopics Mikita had extensively studied during his medical course in the academy was torture. Lieutenant Surge, a former UNGA officer, had headed the class as per his shock torture methods.

He passed that class with flying colors as Archer was about to observe. Of course his observation was limited to audio from his PokéNav. Mikita had taken off the watch and set it up in-between his two prisoners on a wooden table he had found. The two stretchers they were bound to had been set up straight against the wall, the bands running across them and binding them to the stretchers (which had been UNGA equipment to his dismay). There was a wooden stool for Mikita in front of the two trapped tribals, which he sat on as he talked with Archer, also tightening some bandages and downing a pain pill.

"Yes." Mikita stressed as he cut a bandage with his blade. "This is going to be as beneficial to you Archer as it will be to me." Archer had been desperately trying to talk himself out of the session. Though information was information and Archer needed all he could. There was more than that though, Mikita thinking it as breaking in some brutality to the painfully new executive. He had lightened up despite the time difference that caused him to lose much sleep, probably because, unbeknownst to Mikita who would've actually welcomed the news, that his personal unit was resting off of Cuba in a Devon oil rig.

"You don't seem like the squeamish type." Mikita had chided Archer, biting into a pomegranate. The sound his bite made had made Archer flinch, even on the other side of the world, but he kept his steely composure and talked into the cellphone, gazing out from the view of his personal office to the same Saffron City view he had grown used to.

"Unlike you, I've made my life doing civilized things lieutenant."

"What's more civilized and noble than doing what others cannot Archie?" He'd been called lieutenant by Archer more than enough times for him to start using a skewed version of Archer. "Is that your actual god damn name or just some silly call sign?"

"Why do you care?" Archer coldly replied.

"Because, I'd like to get to know you." Mikita spat out quickly, he and Archer unsure if it was a sarcastic statement or not. There wasn't enough willpower for Archer to waste on holding back something as trivial as his name, so he indulged the lieutenant.

"John... Archer's the alias I chose." Mikita shrugged, briefly regarding the two scared tribals, both now awake as if they had been sharing the conversation. He thought the name was boring, but his codename was something else.

"Archer…..You chose that?"

"Correct. Now how does this have any bear-"

Mikita stopped him as he finished up the last of the fruit he found in the rucksack of the tribals, tossing the remains away behind him. "Archer, a bowman. The bow and the arrow. You are an archer because you're directing the bow and the arrow, your judgment giving it the best effect on target." Archer picked up the unsaid comparison, Mikita having traced it from the implied reasoning of why he chose his codename as he was an executive.

"I guess you could say that….Micky." Mikita was momentarily pleased, grinning as he licked his teeth clean from his snack.

"But remember, the archer is nothing with a bow and arrow. You get what I'm saying?"

"…" Mikita heard the uncomfortable grumble of understanding, his education as a leading officer showing in that moment before he stood up and started to display the other thing he was educated in: information extraction. The younger Godfather, the one that had been hobbled and trapped, had tensed up with every movement Mikita had made. The other on the other hand was still as furious as ever, his Mohawk as red as the anger he was exhibiting. He thrashed about in his stretcher, so much so that he had more than once fallen down, forcing Mikita to right him again several times.

"See, if you two answer my questions as easily as the man in the watch does, I won't hurt you." He said in his friendly, philanthropic, Russian tinged tone he used to calm down locals. Despite the smile on his face and the gleam in his silver eyes, the knife had been waved at both of them anyway.

"Something simple. Your names, what are they?" Archer had downed his first glass of ale as the session started, hand holding onto his chair's arm. This was sadistic of Mikita, he needed no information other than 'go kill the tribals and get what has been lost.'

The younger one had been subservient enough: "Jay."

The other one had been more difficult, still cursing him in mumbling Spanish or Portuguese. He tapped his chest with the side of his knife, laying the black blade on it before moving it gradually up until the point grazed his Adam's apple.

"If you don't answer my question baldy." The dome of the tribal had shone with sweat. "I will hurt you. I lose nothing by killing you."

"You're losing time lieutenant." Archer's young voice cut through the raspy speaker. The tribal, even with a knife at his throat kept his steel gaze, not answering.

'You know your….Chief? Is that what you call him? He has no problem getting around and stealing my shit without eyes, I think you can be just as well off." The knife came up, pointed at the tribal's irises. It was a feigned maneuver though, Mikita's free fist coming up and swinging through from the right. The tribal's head couldn't recoil in its trapped state; a good punch would've broken his neck then and there. The crack of his fist against the man's jaw was an audible thud that echoed to the phone and throughout the empty warehouse, the bodies of the dead having been tossed asides and eyes closed.

Archer flinched in his seat almost as if he had the one being hit, more punches delivered to the jaw of the tribal in succession. Punch followed punch in a well-practiced rhythm as if the tribal had been a punching bag, even in his beating he tried to spit at the lieutenant. The final blow was from his palm, striking his nose.

A red drizzle came out as well as his name. "Keav."

Mikita was barely winded from the beating he just delivered, cracking his knuckles. "Keav and Jay. Alright, that was simple enough. Now who are you?"

"Part of a people that will kill you." Keav had answered, almost sure of it. It was a fair enough answer but he was beating around the bush.

"Specifically please…Jay?" He asked, waltzing only a foot over to place himself in front of the younger tribal, his hair mismanaged and not cut. No answer came though, the boy only quivering as Mikita crossed is arms expectantly.

"You already know this information Mikita." Archer had argued through the PokéNav. It wasn't that he didn't know it was just that there had to be a progression he had to follow in interrogations. If it was an enemy soldier of a foreign legion or one of the splinter states it usually went from name to rank and to the confirming of what events led them to be captured. A car battery might've been useful just about now, but Mikita was always hands on. He silently shushed Archer, even though he couldn't hear.

The foot long knife was pressed underneath the man's breast, pressure being put on it enough for it to be pierced and for it hurt. The young tribal squealed, spewing out dozens of answers:

"Godfather! Descendent! Padrinos! Father! Son!"

"Are you my godfather?" Mikita asked, intrigued by the subject as he twisted the blade.

"You are the bastard son!" The defiant one had called out again. Mikita had taken the blow; he had heard worse, more racial defined insults. Russians and Americans were never liked in Japan post-war, both carrying the collective guilt of destroying the world even centuries after it happened. The American hatred in Japan had been bolstered by not only the third World War but the one that had preceded it as well, so in the end most Americans had been driven from the mainland and set up in the remains of costal China or Korea. Shanghai in particular had become a region known as Unova, which is actually where most of the political power lies today. The Russians were mostly left alone after the Americans left, most, as was the case in Mikita's family, finding home in the familiar Hoenn north. He had remained one hundred percent Slav, so the bastard son comment had been technically debunked as Mikita landed an uppercut to the tribal's chin.

"Who are your children then?"

"The ones you have been butchering." It was apparent he was referring to the Pokémon, eyes darting to the Charizard corpse. Embers from its tail had been all that remained of its life. Mikita remember what Archer had said during the camp raid: All Pokémon come from one of their children.

"Who was your first born?" Mikita demanded out of both of them.

"Our missing child you found and were trying to take from us." Mikita knew it in the tone of their voices; they had really believed that they had been father to their Pokémon. Like most fathers they were also willing to die for their children's sake. In his wriggling Keav was able to unwind his hands, it only took a second for the man to reach up to the buckle in an attempt to free himself, however it only took a second after that for Mikita to seize the hand, sticking it with his knife into the green fabric. Mikita slipped with the aiming though, cutting off two of the man's finger on his left hand. Despite the fact Mikita tried again, the knife hitting dead center in his hand and pinning it to the stretcher.

"I need a name or else I'm going to cut your hand off Godfather!" Mikita threatened, Jay having pissed his trousers. He removed the knife after the screaming stopped echoing throughout the warehouse, getting out a lighter he found and heating the blade as best he could. The blood caked on and the blade smoked as Mikita awaited an answer.

"Mew. Mew. Mew. Mew." Keav had let the word flow from his mouth, almost foreign to Mikita's ears but causing Archer to unplug his ears.

Mikita mistook Keav, the sound he made mimicking a Purrloin or a Meowth. "Are you calling me a pussy?" The heated blade's flat was imprinted on the man's chest, burning the skin until it ran red and black, Mikita's pressure on it imprinting the mark. He removed it for a second to reheat the metal with the lighter, only now hearing Archer's calls from the PokéNav.

"He's not calling you a pussy lieutenant!"

"What is it then?!" He took the bleeding hand of Keav in his own, pressing the heated blade to where his fingers once were, cauterizing the wound, even if it caused more pain to the tribal. Jay had taken to spilling his guts on the floor, spitting up in horror. The blood stopped, the screaming subsided, as Archer finally explained. It had been actually torture for the executive; he couldn't at all stomach the garbled sound of pain.

"The Pokémon: Mew."

The hand was left to bleed as Mikita argued with Archer, the twitching of exposed bone causing Jay to gag.

"You know you could've told me that dead cat was a Mew." Archer had spent the next twenty minutes or so apparently pacing back and forth in his office downing his five bottles of scotch.

"It was non-mission imperative."

"Come now Archer, even someone as blunt as me knows how important Mew is to whatever grand scheme you guys are doing."

"It's not a Mew. At least, not in the fullest sense."

"And that means?"

"Kill off your two prisoners and then we'll talk." In all reality after the first beating and the screams from Keav, Archer couldn't stomach anymore of it and dropped the line, stumbling his way to his private restroom in the Silph Building.

"Grow a spine dammit!" Mikita yelled into his watch, placing it on again. He thought Mikita could teach Archer a thing or two, hardening him for being an officer, but that chalked up to nothing and he was left with two prisoners. Granted he did need information himself, though going in blind was already preferable to the complications that have been presented to him thus far. He knew about Mew in his studies. The definition of rare and mythical, it was once proposed as the sum of all zeroes, the one Pokémon that drew from every mutation that the neutron bombs put forward. In that sense it was powerful, and upon that definition it was the Godfather's child.

The name was the same in all languages: Mew. In fact it made sense in all honesty, three hundred years ago just after the bombs fell, stone carvings came back into fashion and some were dug up around this area during the recon performed by the expeditionary forces of the UNG to catalogue the world as it stood after the war. The government mistook it as a legend from before the war, but it was actually more modern then they thought.

"Da, da. We know your names and your first born….. What else do I need?" He pondered aloud, unknowingly speaking Russian to the bewildered and bleeding tribals.

"How many of you are there?" He asked, spinning the knife by using the hole which a lanyard was supposed to be attached.

"Enough to kill you."

"I swear I will kill that other guy if you don't give me straight answers Keav." The two started yelling at each other in Spanish, one of accepting death and the other a young coward. 'Enough to kill me? Then an entire god damned division of you.' His thoughts wandered as they conversed, loading his shotgun with the shells he had remaining as he made it sure that he wasn't going to repeat himself. The woody and metallic pump of the shotgun ushered an answer.

"A-Around four hundred!" Jay had sputtered out, earning a stern shout from Keav, his cut lips plump with pain.

'Reasonable enough.' Mikita had heard worse ratios. "How many children do you have?" It had proven to be best to talk in their state of mind at least.

"All of them." Keav had answered plainly, referring to all Pokémon obviously. To be fair it had always been the UNGA against the world, Mikita's mouth forming a straight pursed line in how dissatisfactory, yet familiar, the answer was. He enjoyed having the odds stacked against them, but he expected something a bit more….dramatic. He contemplated shooting Keav the shotgun coming around and being aimed at his gut, but there was still more information to be had and instead he only jabbed the metal barrel into his stomach as if it was a spear.

"Jay, same question." The Ithaca's cold muzzle rested against young man's head, Mikita casually glancing at his PokéNav for the time. He pushed the gun, stressing his neck on a pivot, unable to say the answer because of the fear.

"Five seconds." Mikita said. Mikita counted with his tongue, each cluck making the man flinch before he finally answered.

"I-" The countdown stopped. "I don't know!" The tribal was sniveling, crying almost. Mikita didn't enjoy the sight, but it was satisfying enough that the answer was accepted. The boy was broken, but the same could not be said for the resilient Keav. He had kicked over an M16 that the tribals had been carrying nearby in exchange for the Ithaca. The plastic STANAG magazine came out, dropped to the floor as he used two fingers to pull back the charging handle, ejecting the 5.56 round. All the right pins were pushed out as Mikita field stripped the weapon.

"Where'd you get these rifles?"

"The pirates!" The answer came from Keav too easily. Breaking the rifle he picked up his shotgun again.

"Bullshit." The metal barrel of the shotgun came to Keav's mouth, thrusting forward and breaking his teeth. The two white shards from his mouth were spat out after he removed the barrel.

"Pirates gave them to us." He reiterated again through his bleeding mouth.

"For what? Pirates aren't charitable."

"Fuck you gringo. You're better off killing me!" It was a threat, a false threat. The horror painting across the tribal's face as Mikita obliged him, not seriously thinking he would've.

The Godfather was guilty as sin and Mikita didn't like that at all. The cold barrel was placed against Keav's neck, and Mikita closed his eyes. One hand had come up to shield his face from the muzzle flash and the gore, the other slowly curling around the trigger. This time the sound of the shotgun was eclipsed by the sound of what might've been a watermelon being stomped on, the juices from it momentarily flying and coating everything in the feet around them in remnants of living flesh and grey matter. Without opening his eyes he used his arm to force the stretcher down and away, out of his sight as he opened his eyes to only a hole in the wall and red polka dots on his skin, on the wall, and on his gun. He didn't look down to the body, for he knew by experience that the tribal's head was probably gone as well as any other information that was stored in it. But with that it opened the way for the single remaining tribal to spill all he had to Mikita.

The shotgun was racked and the hot shell came out. The still bloody hand cupped the surviving tribal's neck roughly, shaking it playfully.

"That's what I do to people who fuck with me. Now are you going to answer my questions?"

Jay nodded his head as best as he could, Mikita pulling a seat up in front of the tribal and beginning a proper interrogation.

Unconscious and on the floor, he let Jay live as he scrounged through their supplies a second time near the now burnt out fire. He learned a suitable amount from the young tribal; enough that he held his part of the deal and let him live. Despite the blaring fact he had a hole in his calf, he would've lived.

The Godfathers had apparently prepping for a complete takeover of the region. Mikita didn't care about that in all actuality, however they thought that, for some reason he wasn't able to punch out of the tribal, that Dreamstone (or more specifically, the "Mew") was the key to that. These warehouses had in fact been their safe houses, the map correct in their location placement as well.

His scrounging yielded only a handful of more shells for the Ithaca, but there had been an abundance of side arms and ammo for them. The M1917 replaced the 220, an old American officer's revolver that predated the 220 by a little under a century. The .45 automatic rounds were shared from the stash he was keeping in all of his pockets, the need for magazines disappearing with a revolver. It was an old weapon, but it wouldn't jam in the jungle, and he wasn't going to chance a jam. Spinning the revolver's cylinder, thumbing each round in, he reflected over the answer he got from the tribal Jay.

They got their weapons from some third party, where he couldn't say or else he was better off dead. Mikita almost obliged if it hadn't been the fact that he had told him the name of the man that had been their leader and where he was going: Cortex Phrere was his name, born with no eyes and able to see anyway. Not much more about No-Eye's was revealed other than the fact he, and Dreamstone, were heading to "The Well". "The Well" was of course the former US Air Force Base Wellington.

Asides from that key information, he learned that their religion was basically as simple as it sounded: They gave birth to Mew after the cleansing fires and Mew gave birth to all their (grand) children.

Archer was dialed while his mind floated on the topic of Mew.

Mikita wetted his lips in preparation for a serious talk, finding shade from the light let in by the broken roof. "They're out of action Archer."

"Get anything interesting?" Archer was trying to divert the topic. Mikita was disappointed somewhat, nothing about a possible UNGA involvement was able to be found out. For better or worse, that was one thing he was yet to find out.

"No, I didn't. Now something about the fact I might be hauling a Mew?"

"It's not a Mew Mikita. Not entirely." Archer restated what he had said earlier. He had no problem with doing this, to transport this internationally protected species even if it was illegal. There was money in it, even if it would end up in the illegal research of a legend.

"Archer what kind of man are you?" Mikita asked.

"I don't see what you mean."

"I don't think you're a secretive type, you don't seem like a quirky or a particularly dishonest person. So what are you trying to do? Hold power over me?" He accused, thumbing the hammer of his revolver before he headed for an exit. He knew what new officers wanted to gain: power. Once, a long time ago, he had been in roughly the same position Archer had and was doing the same thing. One thing that was yet to be seen was whether or not someone would die as Mikita had allowed to happen.

"I am merely keeping the situation contained lieutenant." It was a half-assed excuse and they both knew it.

"Archer I can solve all your problems if you just stop holding back….So what do you mean "not entirely a Mew""?

"It's not a Mew because it's still a common animal. It's only half way through its evolution and for some reason Dreamstone swallowed the thing up and perfectly preserved it. So that means we are able to observe Pokémon DNA as it was being created and mutated. A blank slate. The entire Pokémon genome at our fingers."

A/N: A long time ago, in some old journal rotting away in some old mansion on top of a dying island, some old professor who lost his daughter chronicled a birth of a monster. A bad copy of the sum of all zeroes that came from an old country in a largely forgotten land. This is my take on that story if haven't already found out, a take that is tagging along another man's tale.