Intuition and prior experiences had him trust the Raichu as he walked further into the forest in the direction it had said to go. There was no other reason to trust the Raichu other than good faith, but the words it had leaked to Mikita was incentive. Following leads of insurgent cells was something he was used to doing, and he didn't have a bad vibe about this one for all that it was worth, deep in the rainforest trying to find an old stone with a petrified Pokémon in it.

Mew, the implications that it was one of the very first Pokémon within the stone, it was nothing less than a treasure, some holy grail of Pokémon research if one was ever captured dead or alive.

The Academy had taught him how to proceed with killing gods in case it was ever needed, the Mew species especially being praised as one by the more fanatical, the merging of Pokémon in religion frightening when it was an accepted normality. Marx himself had preached old Christianity, the one without the Sinnohic legend Arceus being Christ's own Pokémon or some anthropomorphism of the Lord himself.

When Kyogre had showed up in the middle of the Hoeannic Sea a little less than half a century ago it was a miracle the whale was killed in the middle of Sootopolis. UNGA regulars who had been manning the local posts in Hoenn were the only ones on hand to deal with the suddenly overly aggressive and feral Pokémon hordes that were brought up by the emergence of a god. Mikita knew how easy it was to kill a Zigzagoon or a Mightyena, how difficult it was to deal with an Absol or a Rhydon, and he could imagine the hell of waves of Pokémon attacking human towns and cities in his home region. In the simulation the Academy gave him where he had to deal with the Sootopolis Incident, he was ordered simply to survive the whopping half a day with limited resources and manpower.

In the buildup and preparation lessons to that simulation which Mikita was given the command table in a mock HQ tent, Mikita was taught to simply survive the Incident and preserve Hoenn's infrastructure.

The actual aftermath of the incident left Sootopolis City decimated and most of the eastern coastline along Lilycove heavily damaged. Inland the Pokémon dealt moderate damage to the more rural towns, his hometown of Fortree faring well due to the populace's elevated position and already Pokémon hardened men and women of the town. In fact his own grandfather and father picked up arms in the fight against, albeit his father had just been a child.

It was a war game to Mikita in that test, planted in front of a holographic display and various maps within the tent and hearing over radio transmissions and dealing with organization of the sprawling UNGA defenses.

Of course he was taught to play it defensive, but it was a trick of mind, a rhetorical lesson, that many of the class had looked past and done what the actual commander of the forces in the Sootopolis refused to do.

The sonar signal he picked up from sonar buoys in the southern Hoeannic waters was evidence enough of Kyogre's introduction.

The movements of the god whale were very direct, placed under Sootopolis City where the entire event culminated in some apocalypse bringing event made by Team Aqua back in the day. Mikita accounted for the eco-terrorists during the simulation, using the flight of F-4 attack aircraft to not strafe the Gyarados going mad in the Lilycove Bay as they had historically, but rather having them establishing a Combat Air Patrol over Sootopolis, intercepting a flight of Team Magma helicopters that had been under the guise of civilian helicopters, turning them away. The UNGA Naval port in Lilycove handled the Gyarados just fine given the late introduction of a UNGA Navy battleship launching from dry dock during the incident, the mini offensives performed by Mikita's orders impressing his test graders.

In the end Mikita lost points for the complete and utter shelling of Sootopolis City, his intentions being that his recon pickets had picked up a massive Aqua gathering in the middle of the city, deep underground within the fabled Cave of Origin within the city. However the aggressive tactics measured out that mishap and collateral damage.

Seeing as everyone had known the history of the Sootopolis Incident, the test takers only acted upon recon and intel as they got it, unable to pre-emptively place troops and artillery pieces where they historically were wanted. Because of this though none had really done what Mikita had, directly interfering with the still partly classified events of the Sootopolis Incident and killing Kyogre himself as opposed to what had really happened, which no one knows what.

Professor Oak, one of the observers, had only laughed and handed Mikita a towel and a pat on the back after his session was done. He had said something akin to how Mikita's actions would've killed him, but it was a fleeting comment, said under his breath, Mikita barely comprehending after hours of mental exertion.

He had always been a god killer in that sense, six years later. He had never again handled an operation of that scale, simulated or not, but he was fine with that, he had been killing enough people in his life and he didn't want to chalk some up on his side because of a tactical mistake.

He was perfectly fine, boots in the mud, being miserable as he was in the present.

The orientation was in the general direction of south west, bringing Mikita to a moderate muddy river that drained out the dead one had fallen into several hours ago. Crossing it had left him with most of his lower body caked with mud and dirty water, his mood dampened still as the PokéNav had told him it was five in the evening, the blue sky giving way to a warm amber with flushed out white stains across it.

The Godfathers had frequented the area, evidence of the stakes in the ground for their wooden boats more than enough for Mikita to grimace over the fact he was low on ammo.

The gold brass on the end of his shotgun shells were as precious as the gold the Godfathers had decorated themselves with, their bracelets and head dresses adorned with the mineral. In Mikita's mind, he still chuckled about their attire, on how silly it was coming from a civilized point of view. Tactically thinking, the weight of the gold probably threw them off as well in combat.

However unlike his shotgun shells, the Godfathers could've mined the mineral from the Earth as he found out.

The swish swoshing of water in a pan was the giveaway as Mikita lowered himself into the brush, concealing himself in the foliage as his head went on a swivel, shotgun shouldered meaningfully.

The caw of a Hoot-Hoot made him snap his head left, the vague outlines of Godfathers kneeling in the sand evident through the brush

His mind pinged, body moving automatically against the cover of the largest tree he could find closest to the small stream they'd been 'playing in'. The crook of his head out of cover and his body had tensed up in that all too familiar combat state, ready for war. He breathed through his mouth, sucking in air as he silently cracked his tense bones.

"Eight contacts. Six combat ready." He stated to himself.

They had been panning for gold apparently, two of them panning and sorting through nuggets and dust on a wooden table and the other six either taking a break or defending them. Given Mikita's meddling, he reasoned that he was behind the unusual ratio of guard to worker.

The shining yellow powder had gleamed as it sat undisturbed. Enticing as it was, it was quite possibly a hassle to transport, shooting down his own hope for some extracurricular scavenging, especially since one million more was coming his way if he simply completed the objective.

Between the six tribals they wielded AR-15s, not exactly preferable, the lessons of Fortune Soul teaching most of the UNGA of using the AR-15 in a rainforest environment, but Mikita dealt with what he could make do with, both back then and in the present. The Ithaca was slung across his chest as the 1917 was brought out, the grip intertwined with the tantō as he ducked into the brush, inching closer to them.

They had crappy guard positioning, backs turned to the forest and instead talking to each other in Portuguese or Spanish. One guard in particular seemed like he had been alone, but the rocks he was standing next to were actually Geodude.

Of all the mysteries of Pokémon biology, Geodude were one of them. How they came about because of radiation mutation was lost among more pressing issues, but Mikita knew enough from his dissections that it made sense that a few were in gold rich Guyana. Whenever Mikita had come across a corpse of one in his journeys as a trainer or met a few rowdy examples blocking his convey out in the Middle East, he had seen the varying gemstones or precious metals at the core of the Pokémon. As he understood it, Geodude were hunted because of this fairly valuable part of their biology.

It explained some of the more exotic gems he had seen as necklaces in the Godfathers' possession.

Geodude weren't a hard kill. Many of those treasure hunters actually just taking a rock of their own and bashing Geodude. It was really strength in numbers that made Geodude dangerous, a fact that Mikita was acutely aware of in this scenario, outnumbered one to a dozen Godfathers and Geodude combined.

Mikita was never reluctant to shoot first anymore, to delay entry into combat, but he held his breath as two tribals walked past the bush he was hiding in, talking to each other. His concealment in the bush was only picked up as the outlying Godfather in the pair took a glance down, but once their eyes locked it was too late.

He sprung from the bush, knife out, diving into the side of the tribal's stomach as he grabbed the unprepared tribal's neck. The blade forced its way across the entire width of his stomach as he forced the body to conceal him, the dying man leaning on him as one arm reached out past his meat shield with the revolver.

The tribal that had been next to the one Mikita had gutted froze up, backing away as he saw his compatriot's gut roll out in a red gloop onto the sand. If the tribal could've done anything, it was all meaningless, a .45 shot to the man's collar bone making him choke on his own blood as he fell onto the ground.

It took a while before the individuals had realized what was happening; why there had been a man dying on the sand and why one was leaning back with his guts spilling out. The ex-soldier behind the now disemboweled Godfather revealed all as everything clicked into place for the Godfathers.

The two gold panners dropped their pans into the stream, scrambling for a weapon as the guards raised their weapons, shouting in their foreign languages. The Geodude levitated up, backing off as their fathers moved forward, M16s raised.

He felt the rounds pierce through the human shield he was holding, almost harmlessly tumbling out and into his Kevlar vest with a soft thud. The first shots were exploratory, the Godfathers not comprehending that Mikita wasn't dead despite the shots. He snickered as he ducked his head behind the definitely dead man's back, peeking out over his shoulder with the revolver.

He closed the distance, pushing forward with the body, the man's feet dragging across the sand, his entrails following Mikita as well, the Godfathers forming a half circle in front of him.

The fingernails he grasped onto the back of the man's skin with drew blood, tearing out as his right leg came up and pushed the dead body onto one of the three remaining Godfathers that had a weapon, smothering him and forcing him to the ground. The instant his right leg returned to the ground his entire body shifted toward the Godfather intending to poke Mikita's cheek with a black rifle before getting a skulltap. His hands clasped together around his pistol and knife, his wrist forcing the barrel down to the dirt before a shot got off. The momentum of his body transferred into his right leg again, the hard rubber put to good use, his entire body on a tilt with his left leg as he twirled. He felt the tribal's skull break all the way through the roundhouse, keeping contact with his jaw all the way through and smothering the man's head in the sand as he faced the other direction.

The Godfather opposed to him backed down as he saw what Mikita's boot had done the face of his compatriot, Mikita staring down the notched sights of the 1917. What vague motion the tribal made, dropping his M16 and opening his palms, was meaningless to Mikita, three more shots going out in metallic bangs following the snap of the double action hammer. In the rush of his mind time had slowed, the three shots elaborate in their aiming, the pomf each time a bullet had entered the flesh was the marker within the ex-soldier's head of good effect on target. The ethic of no mercy had been his preferred choice of engagement ruling, but then again his preferred choice of weapon had often left him to give writhing, dying enemy combatants mercy kills. The precise placement of the .45 ACP rounds had cut through the man's center of mass, the final shot skewed across his neck, leaving him literally breathless and soon after dead.

The tribal under his boot had still been alive, though Mikita's foot came across the back of the man's neck, an abrupt snap killing him as Mikita dropped the revolver, the Ithaca pushed forward toward the two tribals that had still been scrambling for their weapons, fumbling with them.

The first time Mikita picked up a gun he acted the same, the training rifles he was given during the Academy intentionally beat to hell, rusted, and crappy due to the circumstances of his class: which was to say they were given the worst factors and told to be the best or else suffer great mental and bodily pain. The normal for the 2319 was the absolute best for every other class, and the training had showed.

The buckshot spread brought out by the distance to his targets had taken out two birds with one stone, the rifles spread out on the same wooden table that the gold dust and nuggets were being sorted out on flying as the bodies collapsed, glitter sparkling as the Geodude finally decided the step in.

Four Geodude were hardly a problem, even when he was a trainer and starting out with a Starly, his Pokémon reigning victorious even with the disadvantage. He didn't consider Geodude Pokémon in a way, and instead he thought of them as the clay targets he used for target practice.

Half a decade of pumping, loading, and shooting had refined his usage of a shotgun, the first shot that went out to a charging Geodude completely shattering it, Mikita's left hand pulling back and releasing the shell. The Geodude had taken the body of their fallen comrade with their gravelly arms and used it as a projectile, Mikita taking a face full of rock head on, the slight concussion he had as he trembled back nothing to the chips of rock that had hooked into his skin.

The Geodude had pushed forward in his stunned state, shotgun taken away as the three remaining ganged up on him. A hefty, rocky, greyish arm garbbed the collar of his ballistic vest, hauling him up as the two other Geodude had seized his arms.

He tore away with his left arm, taking the arms of the Geodude with him, a punch forming, only to contact the Geodude's own uppercut, hooking arms.

Bashes, punches, twisting bodies and rocks ripping across skin. What would have been a blur to any other person was a blur to Mikita himself. The proposal of punching rocks to death was something that had hurt him as much as it made his knuckles bleed. In the four longest years of his life at the Academy though, he was taught how to do anything. 'Anything' was a range which he didn't comprehend himself, but it was all retained in brain that had been knocked around in his skull more times than he could remember.

His elbow slammed down on the Geodude with one arm, lowering it to the ground, Mikita's foot coming through a split second later, cracking the rock Pokémon in two. What the Geodude had in place for blood was a runny, muddy liquid, the lower of his legs coated as he dived for his shotgun following the kill.

The cold barrel was grabbed as a Geodude delivered a punch to his shoulder, Mikita's heels defiantly stuck in the mud, the old wooden stock, flying through the air in response. The crack of wood and rock was the last use Mikita ever got out of the shotgun, using it as a club, splintering the Pokémon as the last survivor dived on him.

The jagged and rough surface of its fingers ringed around his neck, whatever shouting and yelping he did strained and rubbed out. The blood curdling in his throat was all he tasted as his airways were shut, arms flailing at a loss of what to do. The white eyes of the Geodude stared right back at him, its thumbs digging into his throat.

If it had been another human he would've choked back, but it had no neck, the only his hands could grasp on were the roofs of its mouth.

His strength and combat effectiveness was not defined by how quick he could reload a gun, how much pain he could deal and deal with, or how much loyalty he held onto with his orders. Instead he was taught that it was a matter of will, and all the conditioning and training all rode on his willingness to conduct the main rule that every soldier follow or else: survive.

What strength his tired muscles could gather tore at the Geodude like a reverse bear trap, splitting open the Geodude even as the air was being locked out of him, chips of gravel digging into his neck.

He forgot that there had been a disembodied Geodude arm on his left forearm, but his fingers didn't respond as he sat down on the stream's banks, upstream from where the bodies of one of the Godfathers diluted the stream with red. In one hand was a fistful of magazines for the M16 in his other hand, blank eyed as he let all the excruciating pain and soreness pass through his body in one swoop, heavy and burning breaths tingling the back of his nose as his throat felt constrained beyond belief.

Placing the gun and the ammo asides, the cupping of his hand flickered by the sheen of the fresh water and the flecks of gold dust in it as he went for water. Temporary relief flowed through his system, cleaning his better progressed wounds with the liquid, scrubbing away dead skin and scar tissue. His pack had held nothing more than very specific medical items now, biogel and foam running out, bandages all but gone. He knew in his bones that he would break one of them sooner or later and held onto such supplies, but it was disheartening to not have enough to ease the pain of the several bruises, sores, and swelled skin where bullets had cut through and underneath the ballistic vest.

The final remnants of the blue and green scrubs were torn off, the scraps of fabric of what was once an international aid group's uniform now sent into the stream and drifted off into a bigger river. The vest had covered his torso and torso only, nothing underneath save for the dog tags clamped underneath it, the lack of sleeves being a blessing against the Guyanese heat.

His hands had been wiped clean of the Geodude blood as they hung idle in the cool stream, a streak of brown and a hint of Mikita's own blood coming from the overused knuckles, Mikita's eyes following the trail of blood in the stream as they emptied into a larger river, the current sweeping the color away as if it had been time's current itself.

What impact Mikita had on it was little, at least in his own mind. Soldiers were never taught to save the world anymore, seeing as it had come to an end once over already. If they couldn't save it the first time, it was useless to try again, so instead they were trained to simply keep it the way it was in its comfortable, though precarious state, neither making it better nor worse.

The only thing that felt strange to Mikita being in Guyana was the fact he was under not UNGA orders, but by a contract of Rocket Industries. He was used to all the killing and all the hurt and pain, which was expected of him, but above that there was that omnipresent feeling that Mikita tragically wasn't familiar with much: making a difference.

The bi-hourly beeping of his PokéNav echoed from underwater, his numb fingers twitching over and calling Archer.

"Lieutenant Noelle?" The constant answer from the baby faced junior executive that was his handler. A constant reminder of something he once was.

"Micky." He gritted through his teeth, gritted through his pain.

"Does it matter lieute-"

"Archer, I am NOT a lieutenant anymore and I have the decency to not shame those who hold my former rank by associating it with my name."

Honor, loyalty. Romantic visions that he held onto as a soldier. Better to live by those words then to live by no words at all.

As far as honor was concerned, his CO was a samurai descendent, and he often thought he absorbed those honorable traits often attributed with the ancient warriors through some photosynthesis. At least, that's what he told people. The old man that the Captain was had told Mikita of his own memories, of his own stories, and Mikita recognized what honor does to people like them. It kept the bloodlust away, kept people alive, kept your soul clean as best as you could and happy with yourself. He honored his enemy, respected the opposition, and honored the requests of all. It was a good mantra that kept him from hating everything.

However when that honor is stripped from a person, it is truly a test to see if they valued it, which Mikita did, and he recognized himself as a man without honor after what he had done.

Archer didn't understand, even after all the time that Mikita had often corrected him when he was addressed by his former rank, Rocket's brutal business etiquette corrupting its executives and admins. Giovanni probably had taken that darkness into his heart as a means to ends. In this case Mikita being the means to that end, whatever it was with Dreamstone and its Mew.

"You don't sound like you trust R Industries Mikita. Even after the pay boost." Archer said bluntly as a PS at the end of the call, but Mikita kept it going with that. Trust was a vital component, as said the thousands of memos he got from High Command about boosting teamwork and morale, but he believed in it and made people believe in it.

"Trust is earned." Mikita had said, sighting his new rifle, making sure it had cycled as best it could in the damp environment, field stripping it.

"I don't need to prove anything to you." Archer had said menacingly.

"You don't need to prove anything to me but it sounds like you have everything to prove to your boss." Mikita had said in his matter of a fact tone, switching off his PokéNav, leaving Archer steaming as usual.

Am I usually this snarky? He inwardly thought, working on cleaning his scavenged rifle. He only shook his head and chuckled, figuring it to be something that every twenty four year old was, going back and thinking about some other time he had to deal with trust issues.

"Didn't know you were a sniper LT."

To be fair Mikita was trained to be a lot of things, he had the same training as Covey in terms of his marksmanship, which was impressive enough, but he had a myriad of multiple traits and skills learned through the Academy just for his class:

How to man a tank, CQC, very basic knowledge on how to fly attack aircraft and helicopters (granted Mikita's stomach disagreed with flying entirely), calculations for ballistics trajectories, demolitions know how, wilderness survival, covert operations training… The list went on and Mikita had to wonder how the heck the Academy had been able to cram all of it in in only four years.

He wasn't complaining though, he found good usage for it, especially during his first deployment in the ancient region of Mongolia, deployed in a very thick ghillie suit on top of a cliff overlooking a large plain that the 'native' Rapidash and Ponyta roamed.

The local farmers had often complained of raiders and scavengers stealing horses for their own uses, whether it be food, bartering value, or straight transportation. Mikita and Crowe had felt inclined to help, but of course there wasn't much they could do other than keep watch over the herds. The dull option was of course what they took; Mikita's platoon spread out over some choice Rapidash grounds.

Mongolia was a relatively untouched region, the Third World War not tainting the land too much, just enough for the animals there to mutate all the same as their counterparts all over the world. Despite the lack of environmental damage the sky was always grey, the constant layer of clouds blowing with the cold winds across the relatively flat region. It was the same story with South Africa, the people here were so fortunate post-war that they hardly noticed that the world burned and went on with their lives as usual for a few decades, Pokémon effectively ending that normality when they appeared to them. The Mongolians had handled Pokémon well, simply padding over their clothing with more flame retardant clothing given that Ponyta and Rapidash had manes that had been on fire.

Save the occasional bird species, equine species ruled Mongolia; the mostly passive examples leaving little for the UNGA to deal with save for the human raiders or scavengers. Occasionally a few farmer communities would protest UNGA rule, but the UNGA was preferable to the roaming bands of scavengers.

The steel bolt of Mikita's Nagant was locked back as he blew out some dirt that had found its way inside the action, tilting his head toward the two men he had been prone with to his left.

"I'm a jack of all trades." Covey was armed with a more modern rifle then Mikita's several century old one he had taken off one of the dead raiders, though Haven had only been armed with a pair of binoculars and a calculator.

Haven was apparently Covey's spotter, Mikita joining the two out of knowing that he wouldn't be bored with their constant chatter as they covered their area, their rifles giving them the ability to reach out more than a kilometer.

They had just finished up offing a pair of scavengers, the two gasmask and balaclava wearing individuals trying to chop through the wire fence that marked the property. The crack of Covey's 98 Bravo and Mikita's Nagant cutting the two down, their bodies falling back into the tall grass, undisturbing the horses they were protecting.

"Well, that's seven confirmed kills today. I don't think you deserved that last one though bro." Haven had tallied off the kills on his calculation notepad. "You barely skimmed his neck with that one."

"As if the LT here got any better, that was at least a klick and a half." Covey whined.

Mikita had readjusted his rifle at one kilometer, readying himself for another few hours of wait before he could pull the trigger again.

"Well he got that target square center mass. He got it quicker as well." Mikita didn't mind the banter, he would've enjoyed it more if the three men didn't lock legs in a technique that steadied recoil. At that range it was the furthest shot he had taken all day, and he had nailed his target on the second shot, the round's travel time taking several seconds.

"In fact I'm pretty sure he was moving to pick up on your target as well."

"Shut up George."

"First come first serve gentlemen." As all perfectly sane in the head gentlemen had done in war, they made a game of it, beers to be bought by one of the snipers determined who had been the slacking shooter. Mikita had been intent to win, seeing as he hadn't the money to buy drinks; it was still four years until he started to fight for money.

He was ahead two kills, certainly not the first time he had scared Covey and Haven in his combat effectiveness.

"But then again I don't trust you'll fully pay up Covey." The sentence had slurred together as he adjusted his cheek rest.

Haven ducked down, Covey's head perked up at the accusation.

He throated a few words, the dryness of the air getting to him. "What makes you say?"

"Well I know every time we get back from a mission you go off base for half the night after mess and go fuck a local broad." Mikita had always thought himself as blunt, both in language, attitude, and behavior. Then again he only had the opportunity to make one (human) friend in his entire life. Some stray thoughts about becoming brothers in arms with his comrades had floated about in quiet moments when he was filling out reports on base, but those were thoughts that betrayed his training. He was urged by the Captain to look away with Covey's debauchery officially, but he was inclined to badmouth in that instant.

He had a vague understanding of what the company did when Mikita and the Captain hadn't accompanied them, what precious time the two officers had on base was spent filing reports. Marx and Haven roamed around the base generally helping out, Marx holding Sunday prayer if he was able to, Haven fiddling around with the base's mechanical needs. Crowe often went out with his six Pokémon, five Mightyena and his Espeon, and trained off base, often leaving the local trainers bruised and UNGA relations deteriorated further.

The 'boy's night out' that they rarely had, a good portion Delta company, Mikita included, would go out on the local town and get hammered. Little by little, Mikita finding the alcoholic within him. Those rare glimpses into a regular GI Joe's life had less than impressed him, but as long as they were one hundred percent combat capable in the morning he didn't mind.

The problem with Covey was that often brought women, sometimes feminine looking men, back to base for the on base commander, Mikita and the Captain by extension, to clear them for on base… interaction.

"You act like there's something wrong with it." Mikita didn't turn his head, eye through the scope and sighting up a stray wooden post that had been left behind when the fences were renovated. What simple morals he had he stuck to with his life.

"Covey, you are violating more than just rules." Mikita licked his lips, remembering the forms that had waited in his digital database that could written out and faxed to High Command for reprimanding. He knew that High Command would listen to him especially as one of their 2319 graduates . "As an officer with responsibilities over his men, and a medic by extension, I am inclined to warn you that I could and should take official action if I do see fit." There was a bite in the back of his voice, a whisper of deep Russian intertwine with the type of tone he had heard for years from Lieutenant Surge.

Haven only rumbled uncomfortably, more than aware he was connected at the leg between the two men.

Mikita didn't avoid eye contact because he was afraid, but it was an act, Covey's look for a challenge as his head turned past Haven and into the side of Mikita's head unanswered, left hanging.

"You don't sound like you trust me."

"Professionally, I trust you enough with my life because you trust mine, like it or not, as your executive officer in this platoon." Mikita and the Captain were an odd pairing. Usually a lieutenant like himself led a platoon in the UNGA's command structure, but a pairing of a captain and a lieutenant was a tad overkill.

"What about personally?" Haven had interjected. Mikita's left hand had only ruffled the shoulder of the second youngest soldier he had under him as if he was the older man. Mikita's true age had betrayed him, having just hit twenty, acting thirty. The shoulder shake had said enough, Mikita not minding Haven's fairly innocent persona, giving out candy to young kids and following Mikita whenever he did his rounds around secured towns to provide medical assistance.

"Urghk." Miktia grumbled, more intent on sighting up the stray post in some posturing, setting up some familiar landmark to gauge whatever shots came next.

"Two years of fighting side by side and you don't trust me lieutenant?" Trust wasn't easy for Mikita to give away, not after all the experiences he had chalked up in the past two years, not ever since he had the taste of the military life and all of the edginess that had left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Trust has to earned."

"I'll prove that you can trust me."

"Easy there Claire." Haven had tried tugging on the non-existent leash of his best friend.

Clarick had violently adjusted his rifle, making a point as he straightened out his rifle and locked up his bipod. His scope swiped up and down the range, looking for something to Haven's bewilderment.

"You see that post at bearing 315?" It was the same wooden post Mikita had been sighting up.

"Affirmative." He answered, left arm going across and resting on his right shoulder in a steadying movement.

"Forget about the beer bet."

Mikita snickered, knowing he'd won that bet, even though Mikita assumed correctly that Covey wouldn't pay. "Alright."

"If you can tag that post in one shot, I'll ask you for permission every time to go out on the town, and I'll respect your orders in regards to that. Trust me, I'm a man of my word and Georgie here can vouch."

The curve of Haven's eyebrows towards Mikita had said that it was a serious bet, a lot being on the line in some ridiculous way. Unfortunately for Covey it was the same post he had been sighting up the entire time.

"On the other hand, if you miss-"

"Haven, bullet drop at 1000 yards is about 390 inches, correct?" Mikita cut Covey off, not caring, knowing he could do it.

"Aye, sir. Wind speed has been constant; suggest you change up ten clicks and go high left."

In the long seconds it took Mikita to properly adjust his old rifle Covey had sweat bullets, for the first time knowing what many an enemy had dreaded when they realized they were up against Mikita or any of his class. That sureness, that blunt knowing that you were dead only because you were facing such a person.

Two years in and the rumors had spread of 'Generation Kill', the Class of 2319, amongst both the enemies of the UNGA and the UNGA itself.

The marksman had thought Mikita a fallible person in the moment before he shot, backing up from the scope and shaking his head before looking down the optic again, taking in one long breath that Covey had mistook for a sigh.

"Can't do it?" He teased. Only when Mikita had held that breath, he knew he was screwed, smacking himself for not recognizing what he was doing.

The post had been on flat grass, the sway of them denoting the wind speed, back dropped by nothing that would've distracted him from his elevated position on a cliff, nearly a thousand yards out.

His hearing muffled, his heartbeat was present, and his lungs tightened up as his finger curled around the trigger. The crack of the 7.62 Russian rifle rung out throughout the area, in the short moments before impact, Haven shooting a glance at his best buddy on how screwed he was before peering back into the binoculars, Covey burying his head in his arms.

What sounded like a pencil being broken was the marker of a made bet, the wood post shattered in dozens of splintered pieces.

"Hit." Haven had said, Mikita releasing his breath, releasing the spent cartridge with a metal clang.

Covey's face was riddled with disbelief, twisted in some vague emotion that read that he thought it wasn't fair. "We didn't shake on-"

"Private Covey, you come to me before you go off the base as long as you are under my command. You disobey these orders and terms and you will spend the rest of your service as a desk sergeant. Is that understood?"

"I-…." He sighed once, running a hand through his curly brown hair, removing the hood of his ghillie suit to let air in. "You can trust me, sir."

That should've been the end of that, but the acute hearing of Mikita through his ear pieces caught the tail end of a racist comment said under the Johtonian man's breath.

"Fucking Ivan and his Ruskie rifle…" The Mosin Nagant was a Russian rifle, and Mikita was Russian, more then understanding the hostile intent of the comment.

Mikita didn't make any comment when Covey had said that, Haven stressing out so much that it forced the sniping group to bow out early, returning to base. For the first time Mikita had smoked not to impress the soldiers around him, to fit the officer stereotype he was supposed to have, but to actually get rid of the thoughts going around in his head and to get to the core of the problem.

It was near midnight when the Captain returned, after the text book chatter of the debrief Mikita had taken him aside as the base shone orange in the dark of Mongolia.

"Permission for a special type of Alpha-15 directed at Private Clarick Covey sir." Mikita had said, hands clasped in front of himself, still dressed in body armor, head tilted.

The Captain had glanced over to the exit of the debrief room, catching a glimpse of the soldier in question.

"Reasons lieutenant?"

"Disrespect of this person sir."

"Nature of it?" The Captain had asked, almost giving Mikita the permission for the hands on punishment, but curious.

"Called me a derogatory moniker based on my ethnicity sir."

"Ai… Well, I suppose. Covey's a good guy to hang around, but I do think he does need to be put in place time to time. Permission granted lieutenant, but remember we've got a patrol tomorrow and I expect all my soldiers to be combat ready." Mikita nodded, slapping his heels together and slightly bowing.

The Captain was a lenient man, having soured in his discipline. There was some fear that all that built up rage and poison was going to be unleashed one day, but the Captain was calm, his straight face bare as he adjusted Mikita's helmet strap again for the umpteenth time.

He only started thanking the Captain recently for the bad habit.

"You up to hurting one of your own men Mikita?" He said, patting Mikita's shoulder.

"If it's necessary, yes."

"Well…" The disapproval written on the Captain's face was played down, cross his arms and tightening his jaw. "As you were."

Mikita had eyed the service revolver the Captain had in his cross draw holster, with one final request he had borrowed it and chased after Covey.

The Captain had seen his aura for the fleeting second, it flashing red and silver. But he didn't need to be aura sensitive to know of that streak of evil that had shone on his face.

Marx had agreed to this because he never remembered Covey confessing to him anything even if he claimed to be a good Catholic.

Crowe had agreed because Espy didn't like Covey almost as much as she did Mikita himself.

"It's rare to see you out of your kit sir." Marx had snickered, not used to being with his executive officer when he had been technically not under his command.

"Yeah well I don't go off base often and screw the locals." On base they only wore their combat shirts, the colors jaded colors of the UNGA dimmed even further by the orange lighting of the base, situated on another plain just outside of a small town.

Covey had been checking out at the base's checkpoint, his leather jacket concealing his name and rank that had been stitched on their shirts.

"Covey's a tad frisky one, ain't he?" Crowe had asked as his Espeon rested, hanging on his shoulder, the occasional rub between its ears stopping the perpetual glaring it gave Mikita.

"You know I figured I would've gotten to know all of you better in two years."

Marx only shook his head, a rough pat to Mikita's back as they waited in between the alley of two tents as they waited for Covey to come to the front of the line leading out of the base.

"Don't worry about it sir. For all intents and purposes we're bad people and should be used as such. Not many people are in the Army because they want to be."

The frown of Marx's mouth was shared with Mikita, a quick glance between the two men he had with him sympathetic.

He knew Crowe's story, how he failed as a trainer and left with nowhere else to go but the military, but he hadn't known Marx's story.

"What do you mean Father?"

He shook his head again, looking at his feet, readjusting the wooden cross around his neck.

"If I go out in public again, I'm a dead man."

The lieutenant opened his mouth to say something, but Marx knew the look in his eye, the curve of one eyebrow.

"I didn't do anything to children, I assure you."

Mikita held his head back, momentarily ashamed for considering the thought, but Marx's round face read of forgiveness as it always had.

"Long story short: I pissed off the mafia."

Covey's trademark swagger had danced in the air as he began to talk to the checkpoint guards, signing in so he could be signed out of the base. Covey was always a smooth character, forged out of a childhood roaming around Goldenrod City. When Mikita actually cared or bothered to read over the personal dossiers, he found details that he figured he was better off not knowing. Apparently Covey had been the son of two gang members, Aqua and Magma respectively to Mikita's surprise. As such the parents were always fighting. Didn't do good in school, a classic college dropout, sought an outlet in the more sensual ways. Haven confirmed the stories, having joined up with Covey after his initial tour as a UNGA Naval man, ending up in Johto and switching to the ground infantry during the shore leave. It was Haven that got Covey into the army with him, Covey first joining the Scout Sniper school before being kicked out and becoming a GI.

Mikita asked Haven if he wanted to help him, but Haven bowed out, not entirely comfortable with Mikita's idea of a trust exercise.

They were all toned for war, so it took three men plus an Espeon to subdue Covey just before he got out of the base, dragging him to the barracks to the applause of all the regular GIs, screaming for a rough up and blood.

Mikita didn't mind that one or two had come up and given Covey a punch in the gut, the man collapsing to his knees and being dragged by his elbows, but what they did would wreck his body, and he intended the screw his mind. The Academy taught him how to be fucked up, how to break down people, how to be as much as a monster as a Tyranitar or the now extinct Salamance.

In fact, one of the 'teachers' was a serial killer, but the lessons he gave were hardly used by Mikita due to the fact it gave him nightmares.

The door to the barracks were thrown open in such a way that screamed of a surprise inspection, the men present going to the front of their bunks and standing rigid as they saw Mikita.

"Keller, Iwata!" He called the two as Crowe and Marx manhandled Covey, the Espeon using its powers to drain his strength.

"Yes sir!" They both appeared in front of him, arms at their sides, everyone knowing that Mikita meant business.

"I need a desk and a chair front and center."

"Yes lieutenant!" They scrambled off for the items as Mikita drew the revolver from his officer's holster, spinning the cylinder and checking the six rounds.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Covey had screamed at Mikita to his back, trying to wrest himself free from the chaplain and the former trainer.

The blunt noise of the wooden grip against Covey's nose had been Mikita's answer.

"You address me as sir, private." A streak of blood from Covey's nose threw itself on the floor.

The marksman had tried to wriggle away, but the chair and the plastic desk were brought forward, Covey forced into the chair by Marx's strong, LMG hardened grip.

"Espeon, Light Shield." Crowe ordered, the burst of energy culminating throughout the barracks surrounding it. Light shield was versatile, in Guyana providing the roadblock that Mikita had faced in the first hours there, but when it closed off an area, it made it almost airtight to the outside. No one wanted to leave anyhow, forming a circle around Covey and the table, Mikita taking front.

"Do you like disobeying order private?" Mikita had rolled in his Russian voice.

"Only when I think they're unreasonable…" Marx looked down on Mikita for a second, Mikita nodding. Marx's palm slammed into Covey's head. There was some truth to it, a soldier's, more specifically an officer's; duty to his higher ups was not only to carry out orders but to also interpret them. Still to disobey them completely wasn't Mikita's forte.

"You were about to check out private, and I do remember you were supposed to come to me about permission to leave base." The collective 'ooooh' of the troopers around them had helped cement his point.

"I thought I could trust you Clarick. You said it yourself." He took Covey's head, punting it down and into the table as he walked around.

"Yeah, and I trust YOU enough to not do anything serious." He spat out the blood on the table, taunting.

"Of course not, I'm not going to do anything."

The .357 magnum was pulled out to the surprise of the crowd, the direction which Mikita pointed it all but cleared out as he pulled back the hammer.

What would've been five shots that would've rang out throughout the base only echoed within the Espeon's light shield.

"Close up the shield Espy." The Espeon responded obediently to its trainer, the invisible box forming around Covey and the desk.

"I hear you like referring to your officers by unsavory terms private. Captain Tojo won't mind if Lieutenant Ivan forcefully inquires why."

Every soldier went silent, a few of the wiser ones standing guard at the door, knowing that this had to happen.

The five rounds that were shot had bounced against the light shield, rolling to the floor to no effect, the revolver in question still being in the lieutenant's hand.

"If you are so interested in my ethnicity private, how about we play a game trust my people used to do hundreds of years ago."

Only one shot had remained in the cylinder, Mikita spinning it, taking a peek at where the last remaining rounds was before slamming it down to the table, taking Covey's hand and placing it within him.

"Espeon, psychic." Crowe said again, a blue film around Covey's right arm and hand, the gun forced to his head.

There was no protest from the soldiers, no cry out for injustice or calling their XO crazy, the anticipation was enjoyable.

"If I cannot trust a soldier under me, he is worthless, and I'd rather have him gone then weigh me down." Marx had continued to hold the young man in place by his shoulders, the cold metal barrel against his temple forcing out tears.

Covey's fingers were free from the psychic hold of the Espeon, but they were as far away from the trigger as they could.

"So here's the deal: Pull the trigger, you stay in the military, get to fuck as many local women as you like as long as you ASK. ME. FIRST." Mikita heard the whispers, comrades telling each other of the game that Mikita was playing, made up by some Russian soldiers in the twentieth century: 'Russian Roulette'.

"If you refuse, you'll get a dishonorable discharge for insubordination and you'll be stuck back in Johto as a college dropout who was dishonorably discharged and stuck without the anti-STD medication that I so happily provide." The catcalls to Covey were humiliating, and that would've been punishment enough, though he needed to know he could trust this sniper.

"Pull the trigger. Go ahead, it's safe." Covey's finger trembled over the trigger, refusing to pull.

"You don't trust me?" Mikita said, arms on the table, leaning in. Crowe only crossed his arms, Marx silently whispering prayers in Spanish as the room filled with rowdiness again, the calls of 'Do it bitch!' and 'No balls!' adding to the punishment.

"Pull!"

The metal click signaled that the hammer had fallen on a spent round, Covey vibrating in his fear. His arm and hand kept forcefully rigid with the gun still against his head.

"Again." Another layer of disbelief washed over Covey's eyes, staring right into the lieutenant's silver ones.

"I'm not speaking fucking Russian Covey. Pull."

Another click, this one bringing a round of applause from the crowd. Covey was still two clicks away from getting a .357 round to his brain, but as long as he could drill Covey's trust into him and vice versa, it would've worked.

"Pull."

"No." He spattered out in between the tears and spit.

"Pull the god damn trigger or I'll personally dump your ass in Goldenrod."

Another click, another round of applause, Covey puking all over the table.

"Pull."

"I c- can't!"

"Trust me god damn it!" Mikita threw the table, Covey's innards splattered on the floor along with the plastic furniture.

A fate worse than death was to be broken down into less than a human and made obedient to someone who could've been an equal. Mikita heard a saying that applied to him and the methods used to train him: It wasn't what monsters do to you that's the worst part, it's what you become afterwards.

The final click, no bang, the Espeon releasing its grip on Covey's hand and arm, Mikita seizing the revolver from him.

As Covey had done to many people in bed, Mikita had made Covey his bitch to the entertainment of all the men around him, the marksman having shit and pissed his pants.

Mikita spun the revolver's cylinder again, not looking, but putting it back in Covey's hand to the bewilderment of the crowd, silencing them.

"Now I need to trust you private. Look at that chamber, remember where the unspent round is, and make sure you tell me when not to pull the trigger."

It took Covey a minute to recover, but after a long between the revolver in his hand and the lieutenant, he gave it back, and Mikita put the gun to his head to no dramatics. If he could've looked around the room, he would've seen the gaping mouths of men twice his age and experience, but he wasn't afraid.

The speed at which Mikita pulled the hammer down was like frightening, unflinching, looking straight back at Covey for a cue. With no obvious cue, Mikita pulled the trigger first, the metal twitch of the gun against his forehead cycling cylinders.

"Don't fuck with me Covey." He pulled the trigger again, uncaring.

"You're crazy lieutenant." Covey said, another pull of the trigger evoking a wince out of him.

"You'd be crazy to not stop me, right?" Mikita leaned in, twisting the barrel of the gun against his skin.

"Then don't pull the trigger on this one sir, please…Stop."

The smack of Mikita's fist against Covey's forehead was the punctuation mark of the session, the psychic barrier dropped, the sides of their heads touching as Mikita left for the officer's building.

"You have my permission to go out tonight Covey." He shoved the marksman off the chair, the crowd of howling soldiers circling around the dazed marksman.

Physical abuse was in his resume, and it often got the point across.

"I don't recommend it of course; we have a patrol at 1200 tomorrow." His gaze swiped across each and every man and woman in the room, knowing that Covey could've been them.

a/n: Wherein I test how long I can pass with a T-rating before someone starts complaining and I stress over my transitions.