Dossiers were always fun to read. When Giovanni had once held a lower position in R Industries and even when he was merely just a member of the board, he had to recruit and pick out his assistants. The reading material was good fun, all the pros and cons of a man or woman before him, and he had to decide how the dossier ended: with either their employment or their continued unemployment.
The reaction that came from Blaine was different though. He already knew the history, or at least some of it, of Mikita Tolya Noelle.
The small, bespectacled eyes were blank as he set the military folder down, bothered, disturbed, and almost nostalgic as his hands cupped around his drink as Giovanni raised an eye brow.
"Something interesting Blaine?" The man asked, back dropped by his office's usually violet hue of city lights and the night.
"Was there a reason why Archer withheld this young man's name?"
"I believe it really wasn't mission imperative."
"I know this boy Giovanni."
In the midst of Operation Fortune Soul, it was D-Day plus six for Delta Company. Noelle's platoon was Delta 1, and as such they were at the front of the battle, pushing toward Hanoi. The constant whine of jet engines and helicopters above them ruffled the canopy incessantly, the sound of gun fire no longer making the 2nd lieutenant piss or flinch in his clothes, now up against the temporary perimeter trench.
Vietnam looked a lot like Guyana, the rain forest of both countries impeding movement of those who fought in it, but like Les Padrinos the Vietcong and the Reformers knew the territory like the back of their hands.
Casualties started mounting, and the advance was slowed, leaving Delta to fortify their positions in the night to hold.
What little bed time reading he got in during Fortune Soul, it was over the men under him and the Captain's command.
As Mikita ducked down, his M16 jammed due to the mud and moistness of Vietnam. Covey's M40 rifle was good though, the more analog action of it surviving and keeping the distant Vietcong pinned down as Crowe and his Espeon kept some sort of safeguard around the section of the trench.
His back was caked with wet mud, dirt digging into his combat trousers as he sat exhausted in the momentary safety of the defensive line, the controlled chaos of soldiers moving back and forth in front of him distracting the constant head ache of his mind.
"You hit LT?" Covey asked, pulling the metal bolt back after he fired the last round, sitting right next to Mikita in the makeshift wooden platform within the trench.
Mikita patted himself down just in case. "Nyet. No." He tried pulling the slide of his AR15, but the almost rusty and gritty resistance it offered failed to feed another round.
Crowe was having a field day, black Shadow Balls being sent down range, peppering the forest in which the enemy hid not much more than a few feet in front of them, engrossed in battle as most trainers had taken as second nature.
"Going to head back to the FOB then for another rifle?" Covey asked calmly, despite the white tracers crossing above their heads, the rattle of another explosion ignored as Mikita stared blankly into the sky, rifle in between his knees, helmet skewered.
"I guess… We aren't going to get anything before sun down you know?" The new 2nd lieutenant's grimacing was understood, Covey poking the inside of his devilish face with his tongue before hanging his head back, intentionally getting his already dirty brown hair imprinted with more mud.
Mikita didn't read the bio of his civilian life, but his training was all he really cared about in the battlefield of Vietnam. Clarick was trained a scout sniper, a pinpoint marksman that lived with offing targets more than a mile out. However he was a rowdy, if not a sexually active, trainee and he was kicked out three quarters through the course after somehow doing something fairly severe to a 'lady' in the span of a one hour leave.
He had enough skills to join the regular troops as a DMR, and he enjoyed it seeing as he and Haven were friends long before the military and promptly ended up within the same unit.
The man (The entire company for that matter) was older than him, so Mikita mentally made a note to put a good few feet between him and Covey in the showers and to do something if the ass pats got a bit too gropey.
Haven had remarked that the two of them were a double act: the joker and the thief. Apparently Covey had been the thief.
The yellow notepad Covey used for distance measurements was flipped open, and he went to work with the yellow pencil which had miraculously never disappeared.
Mikita would've asked about it, but another Delta fireteam had piled into the section which Delta 1 was supposed to cover.
"Lieutenant Noelle." The sergeant of the fireteam shook hands with the new XO, worriedly glancing down at Mikita's bloodied shotgun which was held on a thigh holster.
Mikita had somehow known the last name of every one in his unit after a single meeting. "Sergeant Keller, you my relief this evening?"
"Yes sir." The sergeant's sweaty face was distorted by the falling light. In the darkness, the Vietcong intensified their attacks, not boding well to those on night watch. Mikita worried for a second, but orders were orders and he was to report back to the FOB back at the outskirts of Ha Long, which wasn't more than one or two dismal miles out.
The only sympathy Mikita could give was the rest of his ammo for his AR-15, his training at the Academy having recognized it didn't matter if he thought someone was going to die.
'Everyone dies.' Mikita less than bitterly though, climbing out of the trench and then onto his belly prone, having been relieved for the moment, crawling his way out of the immediate threat zone.
"Yes, yes." Blaine hurriedly said. "I knew him as a gifted trainer when he was twelve."
Mikita's gym badges were all sitting in a small leather case in the inner pocket of his travelling jacket that was collecting dust in his unused room back home in Fortree, the sets mismatched, not one league entirely complete. Blaine's was the first badge he got in Kanto.
"Really?" Giovanni's interest was piqued. "I didn't find anything in the records."
"He traveled with a girl, I probably registered the victory under one name and it was probably her's. They both outsmarted me actually." Defeat to Blaine was classically just another learning experience.
"His Pokémon were trained very well, it only took two from his party to down me." The Staraptor was the opening act, the winds which it had whipped up sending the fire from Blaine's own Pokémon back at them. Eventually both the trainer and the Staraptor had slipped and a swift and fiery flash of fire from his Arcanine took the bird out. Blaine knew the battle lost, Mikita's team filled out with six Pokémon extinct and exotic to Kanto, but he gave the young boy a run for his money as he used his Milotic against the disadvantaged Arcanine.
"He likes a challenge. He had a Pokémon that would've murdered my own real easy but he didn't use it at first…" The girl was even a worse loss for him, her Altaria massacring the match. The Staraptor and the Altaria had been a very rare sight, the two almost extinct, even in their own regions. The potency of the bond between them and their trainers was perhaps one of the reasons why Blaine had justified is part in Rebirth.
"What does that mean in regards to us Blaine?"
"It means we shouldn't be too worried. I saw the fire in Mikita, that certain yearning… I heard from Surge that he was in the Academy, and he was very much in a very fitting education course."
"Does that mean he knows any other gym leaders?"
"Probably, but the fact might not hold vice versa. I know that Misty's family had him over for a swim once or twice. Sabrina knows him well, as does Brawly in Dewford and especially one of the retired leaders in Fortree. I think Winona was her name, the grandmother of the girl he traveled with." The rambling of the elder man was revealing in some way, Mikita already being peculiar, even before his training. Giovanni had his presumptions, that people like Mikita had lived not to fight, but lived only in the fight, but further employment was becoming increasingly tempting to the CEO.
"The girl's name was Valentina if you want to bribe some more league officials for another search, another once over won't be that bad if you're curious."
The FOB was fortified, the traffic in and out of it frantic in the midst of the battle not more than a few miles out, Mikita returning with a group of soldiers being rotated out for the shift.
He kept silent, every time a crack of a bullet was heard menacingly close, the hand around his shotgun made the freshmen troops around him worry more than the actual gunshot.
The gravel and dirt road underneath his boots were cushioned by the soaked socks he wore, further reminder to stop by the supply tent to reacquisition a fresh set of everything.
Clothes, ammo, food, miscellaneous knick knacks that pleased the troops anyway on the front line had come through the supply lines, mailed to the troops from home. As an officer Mikita was able to cut through the line that extended well past the open tent, it the size of a football field, and to the kiosk for requisitions.
"There anything for me?" He asked the tense, and also injured, desk sergeant. Everyone had seen action before being the UNGA infrastructure was taken up.
"Name and rank." The desk sergeant didn't look up, reviewing his supply manifest.
"Mikita Tolya Noelle. 2nd Lieutenant. 2319. Delta Company, 38th Infantry Battalion, 2nd Regular Infantry Regiment."
The supply sergeant made the mistake of the looking up directly into Mikita's eyes, looking back down to both hide and verify. He shook his head in the negative.
Mikita didn't wait to request what he really wanted. "How many full length shotguns we got?"
"A good few dozen, mostly for the MPs: Ithacas and Mossbergs."
"Get this on the line to the armory then: One 590, up to spec, folding stock and a heat shield." The sergeant noted it down, passing over the slip of paper onto his desk, an Abra flicking in and out of the air for just a second to take the order.
"Anything else?"
"Ammo of course, but I've got enough for now. I'll be back after I go man the hospital for a few hours." Mikita fumbled with his storied breaching shotgun, wanting it gone, tossing it on the table. He learned later that the shotgun was being played up as some war trophy within the battalion, and he was surprised when the Captain got it back nearly four years later during an outing in the Philippines the rusty splotches of blood from the nameless Viet-Reformer still etched in.
Taken aback for a second the shotgun was pushed aside for a minute, Mikita finished.
"Of course Lieutenant Noelle." The desk sergeant answered, but by the time he looked p recording the request, the Siberian was gone.
He didn't bother discarding most of his gear as he walked into the medical tent, adding only a white and red armband over his arm to denote his secondary profession as a medic.
It was hardly the most sanitary of environments, but Mikita blew up the only hospital within Ha Long with his artillery strike, the soccer fields that sat next to each other was the center of the FOB and thus also where the hospital was situated due to its flatness.
His hands and body were on automatic, helping people finally instead of killing.
Staples applied, biofoam and gel spread and squirted, stiches tightened and closed, the occasional rib and bone broke to be set and strengthened with casts and splints, it was good work.
The actions of his mind were so automated, it only took Tuga Marx's hands to bring him out.
The chaplain was injured, a bullet being taken to the knee and thus relegating him back in the tent.
"Calm down sir."
"Ah." Mikita struggled for a second, picking up the clipboard denoting the former Spanish priest's treatment.
"Bullet passed above and to the left of the knee and through the thigh, exited entirely…" He lifted the sheets for a second to verify the correct treatment, a set of staples and stitches and with the appropriate medicine applied to the surrounding area.
"How are you doing Father Marx?" The lieutenant stammered on the name, trying to figure out if that was correct in terms of military rank to title of faith. Marx looked up, but only to look past him.
A gloved hand sat onto the young XO's shoulder.
"He's doing just fine. He's a bit hazy due to the medication, but just fine. Shame, a few people here could use some final rites read." The Captain had carried Marx back, the two sharing a unanimous bond as veterans that never wanted to be. The Captain was an ex-con, or rather a to be convicted con if he went back civilian, something he had been avoiding for a good two decades or so. Marx had pissed off some religious mafia types and suffered the same fate, albeit in only the last ten years.
"Situation report?" Mikita snapped his heels together before grabbing both hands behind his back as he answered.
"Our section of the trench line has held for the entire shift due to Private Covey's marksmanship and Crowe's use of his Espeon to shield themselves from incoming fire."
"Observations?"
"At the current rate of advance maybe we'll get to Hanoi in three or so weeks, even with Pokémon such as Espy being able to ID targets, the forest is always living, too many things to pick out." His voice had given way to the Slavic tint in the last few words, taking a breath, but the Captain's flick of his eyebrows told him it was alright for him to continue in his own voice instead of the false American one.
"The M16s and M4s we were issued are finicky at best in this environment, they work back in the Central Regions or on the coasts, but here in the mud it's another issue." Most of the weapons that were used in the world were either a. Kalashnikovs or b. prototypes or designs from the nations in the Cold War. The AR-15s fell under the latter from the Americans and NATO states. The story was the same up and down the front, but orders were being put through to Tokyo Marui and spare rifles were being sent from Unova.
Marx's hand rose up to the sky through the sage tent's roof, ebbing in the evening wind.
"The angels are coming."
Marx wasn't going to die, the monitors hooked up to him said nothing of it, the psychic Pokémon who could tell not glancing over.
"But he's not-"
"Not for him." The Captain stopped Mikita, already turned to the entrance flaps where a squad was coming through.
White guys, iron helmets, a steel aura the Captain detected around them. The smudge of a white design on each of their helmets differentiated them from the regular Rangers that were present.
The Captain put on a scowl as he held his head down, those who weren't busy with a patient going over to regard them.
There were Reformers in the room, being treated despite their status as combatants, the duality of UNGA combat ethics frightening. Of course they tried their best to kill everyone, but the rats that remained some took pity on and treated.
One by one, these survivors were picked up by the new group despite how badly wounded they were, the flash of a red arm band and the unmistakable design of the ancient Sanskrit symbol for peace, strength, and good luck revealed to Mikita who they were without a second guess.
The Academy trained him to identify all the current active units and all the famous historical ones of the UNGA and also of armies of the past. From the Japanese Special Attacks Unit to Washington's Continental Army, he could identify the names if he had a reference. In this case it was the swastika of Asian tradition instead of its fabled use by Nazi Germany in the Second World War.
"The 26th UNGA Ranger Battalion." Mikita spurt out. "The Valkyries."
The Captain tilted his head in Mikita's direction, listening to the written answer in which he had given in that particular benchmark test.
"The 26th is a UNGA Ranger Battalion often deployed in the heaviest combat zones at the time. Both frontline and expeditionary actions are played out by the 26th under the command of Major General Carmine Karabin; inclusion into the unit is very selective." The answer was a barely passable one, but it passed.
"I'd be impressed if I didn't already know Noelle."
"What?"
"What do you know about the process to get into the unit?" The Captain asked, testing his freshly graduated XO.
"Was never educated in that." Mikita answered, not bothering to beat around the bush. One by one, the Viets and Reformers were forced out of the tent at gun point, some bleeding, some still connected to IV bags.
"It's very political. Karabin chooses each of his men personally; they go through the screening, only those who agree with him."
"What does that mean?"
"He's bullshitting us with that Swastika. It's not the shit for peace, it's a middle finger to us and a homage to his ancestors."
Nazism was rampant in the post-war world. Project Odessa had bred the survivors of Germany and planted them throughout the world, prep to take hold after an all too convenient nuclear fire. They were suppressed for a while, not taken seriously as the talks to form the UNG started cultivating. To them it was their opportunity for a Fourth Reich.
Of course if it didn't work once it wouldn't work again, but the Pokémon Crisis changed everything. They changed their wordings, the politics of it slightly more favorable. The Master Race was preferable to no human race at all, so they got some traction, but not enough to make any real difference. They existed; they always did, chiming off on every issue, a thorn in the side of whatever politics existed. Some called them bigots and racists; other heralded them as the Master Race.
Mikita didn't like Nazis, one thing he was sure that was due to his blood, but he knew where he stood on the food chain and didn't make a fuss about it.
Mikita's eyebrows flickered as he was hit with a guess that was worth saying aloud.
"You tried getting in?"
The Captain nodded, Marx falling asleep behind him as they kept silent, the Valks passing by them and forcing a Viet without an arm out of bed and out of the tent. Some protested, but they didn't listen, and only gestured threateningly.
It made Mikita put on a scowl of his own.
"You didn't make the cut?" Mikita asked.
The Captain only patted at the katana on his belt, and then to Mikita's throat and tongue.
He was an Asian, which didn't fit Karabin's vision at all. Mikita was a Russian, which anyone could tell by the glint in his eyes and the growl in his words, and Russians were never a Nazi's friend if history was anything to denote. How fickle and disgusting it was, it existed only because the UNG didn't want to get political with the Army. It was a Pandora's Box, and with the Nazis contained to only a seat or two in the smaller committees, it was just fine to push aside.
He didn't know what happened to the Viet-Reformers, but they were marched out, and every time they did he heard a blast of gunshots jarringly close. Everyone in the room knew what was going down, and the mass grave Mikita uncovered next to the city wall verified as such.
One thing that Mikita didn't know was that the Valks were called upon for Black Ops when the actual Special Operations Group was busy. The operations log was impressive, especially since Karabin sought his own agenda:
Novaya Zemlya to recover the last and largest nuclear weapon ever made.
Groom Lake, America to recover stolen Nazi property and prototype blueprints.
Ethiopia to investigate rumors of the Ark of the Covenant existing within the ruins of old places of worship.
The last operation Mikita would ever know of was the one that complicated his situation in Guyana.
A/N: Vacation was alright, cleared my head. I went back and redid some of the earlier chapters, might be worth a once over.