Jordan. 2322. Search and Destroy.
Not every fight Mikita fought he had won. Of course he had survived, as it had been rule #1 of the 2319 rule book, but sometimes he had survived by the skin of his teeth.
Haven's face had taken wood shrapnel as he burst through the door of the small beige stone house, collapsing on the floor before an Arabic family, that same dozen or so big family being backed into the wall at gun point by Delta. Of course they had good reason to barge into the house with no warrant (not that the warrants ever mattered), Jordan often being rampant with illegal settlers and refugees from Turkey, Israel, and everywhere else in the Middle East, it being the only light of civilization in between Ireland and Asian coastline.
The rain of fire they had been running from the local militia group had stopped as they entered the house, a sum of all this particular's family's failures and successes in the unfair world.
With an influx of people on the wrong side of the law, on the wrong side of the poverty line, and on the wrong side of public outlook, they had nothing to lose and many fell into marauding gangs and terrorist groups vying for better lives that had often ended up in unjustified killings and UNGA deployments on all four of Jordan's irradiated and dangerous borders. It was in the Middle East where most of the 2319 class was deployed on a regular basis, and it was there where Mikita had done the things he never wanted to remember, but never forgot.
"On the floor, NOW!" 1st Lieutenant Franklin's voice had been more of a weapon then her actual Galil, still pointed at the Arab settlers, scared, yelling back at the UNGA soldiers with their language. One man with a gray, smoky beard had stood up to resist, arms wide, but he had gone to the floor like his family when Mikita's Mossberg had whacked the man across the face.
Franklin had been a 2319 graduate like Mikita, a blonde woman from Sinnoh, thirty years old. She had been in the middle of the class, Mikita just behind the top three. Not to say that she hadn't been of the same caliber Mikita was, it was just the fact that Mikita's test scores had been higher. Grades didn't mean jack out in Southern Jordan however.
"Dammit Micky." She had put a hand on Mikita's shoulder as the rest of Delta piled into the house, aiming their guns out of every nook and cranny and securing a perimeter in the darkening night. She hadn't been cursing Mikita of course, she had been cursing herself, bent over, both of the officers trying to collect their breath after dashing across the street to the only stable cover they saw. As always, Mikita's helmet had been crooked, the Captain roughly and quickly readjusting it as he loaded Mikita's shotgun for him and shoved the firearm back into his hands, the stray shot being fired at them by the locals keeping everyone tense.
"I just lost my god damn squad." She had practically kicked the dinner table of the house into pieces, much to the detriment and fear of the Arabic family. The rage in her face about losing men under her own command had been so, so closely been directed at the Arabic family, they being inhabitants of the settlement they had been sent to pacify. No one had counted on the surrounding villages to send help though, overwhelming the forty or so men that had been sent by the UNGA Command in the region, half of them dead and most of them wounded in some way.
Haven, Covey, and Crowe all had their guns trained on the family, those able to fight in covering positions as those who were injured simply collapsed on the rugs in the living room. Four of them adults, the rest children.
Asides from the stray shots being fired, it hadn't been the same cacophony of fire that had forced them inside of the house in the first place.
"How the hell are we getting out of here Micky?" Franklin had asked, just about ready to go out fighting, but still considering the alternative from the usually cool headed young man that Mikita was, the Captain mute as he simply just coordinated the fire from the surviving men. He had trusted Mikita, and rightly so, in the twenty years the Captain had been a captain he had never had an officer under him be more correct in any of his judgments. Albeit it was the fact many of those orders never had any morals applied to them.
To inflict harm and to abuse resources was something he had preferred if it had meant victory. Means justified by ends, and no alternatives. Some people would've called him selfish, but then again, they hadn't lived as he did.
Mikita had only raised his finger to make Franklin give him a moment, whipping his head towards a window, counting the amount of fire through his headgear, his armored facemask brought down.
"Why the hell aren't they just lighting us up?" The stone walls would've only added a few precious minutes to their lives at the rate they were shooting at just moments ago, initially destroying the stable they had taken cover behind at first, stray Ponyta and Rapidash now roaming the street amid the gunfire. But they didn't give that same lack of care to the small house they were in.
People often forgot that some native fighters actually fought for their homeland and for the people that lived in that land as opposed to simply just wanting to rebel against the machine or to kill UNG citizens. It was this hard fact that Mikita knew why they had lived this long, turning his gaze back to the family with the face of a man who had just discovered something better than sliced bread and the Pokéball.
It had been too hot for Crowe to release his hounds, and too late to deploy anymore air support, the only way they were getting back was by walking all the way to the closest FOB ten miles away. As painful as it had sounded, they would have to do those steps at a slow pace, being weighed down by twelve more people.
"Grab a hostage. We're going to walk home with them."
"No, no, no, no," Crowe had hurriedly said, taking Mikita by the shoulder as Haven had checked his ears. "Go through the process in your head and then tell us what you expect us to do sir."
It didn't take much to understand Crowe's reason for the request, and it didn't take much more than a moment for Mikita to say his thought process aloud with no remorse.
"We're using this family as a shield and walking all the way back to FOB Vegas. Once there we'll give 'em back."
Sometimes Mikita worried about the things that came out of his mouth, the hoarseness of his accent and voice, but the truth had always hurt to say. Those who didn't care about Mikita's plan kept firing out of their windows and holes, ammo casings piling up on the floor.
"Sir, I have to detest!" Crowe had practically yelled over the gunfire, Franklin having squeezed her classmate's shoulder, backing him up.
Haven had backed up from the cowering family, not outright saying it, but the way he had stepped away from Mikita and the family speaking to disinterest. Covey had stood his ground however, between the three, his morals had least affected the way he fought. Other within earshot of the lieutenant's command had their own thoughts, some wanting to protest, but none having the stones to interrupt, especially in the busy of a firefight that had killed over a dozen men not more than few minutes ago. They'd return to the town in due time to collect the bodies and to absolutely crush the opposition, but now they were just simply trying to get back to base alive.
Crowe had been more of an equal to Mikita than the Captain in some instances. They'd been both trainers, both knew what it was like to have people and things die under them, but the shared title they had had fooled Crowe into thinking that they had been completely equal.
"We take those people hostage we're no better than those assholes outside!"
It had spoken to the four years of training that 2319 had taken when both Franklin and Mikita had responded in the same: "Who ever said we were?!"
Silence. Dragging out for a few seconds, it had scared some of Delta to hear that come out of Mikita's mouth. He was still the youngest man among all of his platoon.
"I am not going to let any of us take the burden of letting one these children die just so that we can live." Crowe protested, his rifle falling and hanging by his neck, his arms spread out, motioning to the children that had been unfortunately caught up in this.
"It's better them than us…" Haven whispered, his own face cringing as he said it, Covey giving his battle buddy a sympathetic look. Covey had been the translator, only having yelled at the group to stay down and to stay calm, even at his gunpoint, but he had waited for Crowe to present his case.
"Sir I honestly think it's better we fight our way out of here then rather depend on hostages to shield us, I don't think these men care for the populace as much as they do their own interests. Besides, once we get them back to base we can't simply release them, can we?"
A few groans from injured men had followed after, only helping Mikita's rebuttal. "They won't shoot them," Mikita's hand had sharply waved at the family, making them recoil. "because they don't like seeing their own blood spilled as much as I do."
A heavy sounding roll of thunder had come from Marx's M60, the distinct sound of flesh and tendon being ripped hereafter and the subsequent yelps of suffering followed only by silence.
Crowe and Mikita hadn't moved from their stare. Trainers tend to not back down from locked gazes, no matter what.
A stray bullet had taken out some of the fine china just above the family and the several soldiers that had stood guard, Covey flinching at the flecks of glass pecking at his head.
"You three are cute when you're angry, but really, get us out of here lieutenant!" In response, Delta had fired vaguely at the shapes of natives, only caring that they got rid of their problems, regardless of what they accidently hit.
Franklin had dragged woman up into a chokehold, the woman screaming for help, but finding none, her family still forced down on the ground.
Mikita had broken his stare with Crowe, if only to ask with his eyes what she had been doing.
"Testing it out." Mikita thought only in milliseconds with that, taking the initiative and grabbing Crowe by the back of his neck and planting him to cover a window.
Mikita had spoken to Crowe in Russian accidently in the heat of the moment, but the curve of his mouth and the disgust in his eyes made it all apparent that the issue was to be brought back up on base when they had the luxury of deciding the morality of what they did was right.
Mikita's shotgun had been dropped on his chest, tight by its straps as covering fire had roared from Delta, giving enough time for Franklin to bring the woman out to the front, pistol to the back of her head and arms barred against her back.
In that moment two locals had come running toward them with the intent to kill, but had stopped once they had seen Franklin having taken a hostage, the rest holding fire and raising their heads out from cover and the buildings of the village.
With fluent symmetry Mikita had come out from the building directly behind Franklin, three pistol shots ringing out from his Beretta in one hand, the two locals falling to the sand like the losing side of a high noon shootout.
Covey had taken two hostages as he followed Mikita out of the door, fumbling over one of the older men to Mikita's chokehold and keeping one to himself, but not before yelling to as if all the world a warning.
Wherein the dusty brown haired marksman had used his bilingual traits to pick up one night stands usually, this time it had saved Delta's life with the call of an eye for an eye.
One by one, Delta had staggered out, each with a hostage. Those who wouldn't be able to sleep with the act simply standing closely behind those who had taken a hostage. Those who had taken a hostage last had unfortunately only had the children to take. Some had been thrown across the backs of some Deltas, some held at gunpoint, some being gripped by their necks.
One of the locals shouted out.
"He says they won't ever forgive us if we do anything to these people." Covey had translated.
"I don't need their forgiveness, I just need their complacency." Mikita had watched more and more insurgents pop their heads and bodies out of their cover, numbering as dozens, all with an angry scowl that glowed in the darkening day. "Tell them what we intend to do."
The Captain had taken the lead, those who had hostages facing and walking backwards, and those who hadn't carefully guiding them. The cold of the desert had seemed to weigh them down, not the hostages dragging their feet, nor the dozens insurgents trailing them on Afghanistan's dunes a few dozen yards out.
The hostages fidgeted, protested, but unnervingly the UNGA soldiers kept silent.
"Hey, Micky." Franklin had said silently.
"What is it Jen?" He responded, only in such a way that had spoken to friendship forged in training. She was the ranking officer asides from the Captain, but they hadn't been conventional in their position in the UNGA.
The stars had beamed blue overhead, the deep hue illuminating their way back home, the dusty visage of the night sky a common sight throughout all the world that hadn't been in a perpetual nuclear winter or had at least some cities present.
"Why aren't you at least a captain yet?" She asked, earnestly, quietly, dragging the now unconscious woman by her heels and practically hiding behind her. "Allenworth just got promoted to Major last month and got his own post on the Lebanese coast."
"Well Takeshi was the valedictorian remember? He's used to kissing ass." Mikita had coughed out, almost disgusted. Those who had been training in 2319's class were never chosen for physical or mental traits, they simply had just signed up on the right date, and never knew their training had been ten times the magnitude of the years before and after them. Because of that there had been men and women just simply trying to make a name for themselves as opposed to serving their country.
Franklin had clicked her tongue in mock disappointment. "Come on Micky, don't say you don't want to get out of…this." She had motioned to their current situation, but had insinuated to everything that encompassed field work.
Mikita tilted his head toward her, eyes oddly, brutally truthful in their meaning. "But I don't."
"Why?" She asked.
Mikita didn't hesitate. It was the same answer he had given his not-girlfriend as the reason for leaving her proposal about leading the Fortree Gym and instead going for the military. It had stood the tours he had been on or it had been something he refused to change and warp with his life experiences. He either lived in a lie or he had accepted the horrible truth. The hard part about it was figuring out which of the two it was.
"I want to make a difference. Down here on the ground, I know I am."
The young man had wanted something tangible like the gym badges he used to earn for victories. But all he got now were nightmares, casualty reports, and nihilistic debriefings that treated him and his men as if they were no greater than dogs.
He liked it though, as long as he wasn't given the opportunity to think too much about it.
Not many people do make a difference, and usually only the lucky and the unlucky are able to, given the opportunity. With the military at least, he thought he could force a difference through iron will and lead bullets.
"Ah, now I remember." Franklin had said. "You were one of Oak's favorites. You at least looked like you had morals with you back in Vermillion."
Another thing he didn't like to think about was the differences he made in the world. The act he enjoyed, and he had guilty realized he sometimes didn't like the result. He had done enough good deeds to justify his life, to outweigh the bad, but every time the notion of him ending up in some sort of hell afterwards came forward into his thoughts, he had distracted himself with work in the medical tent or drink.
The shuffling of sand and boots was all that was heard in that Jordanian night, the glow of the FOB so close. Delta didn't want to call in support because they honestly think they didn't need it as long as they got within the base's perimeter.
"Is this what you call making a difference soldier?" The man in Mikita's arm had whispered accusingly, almost like a ghost. The man's monstrous beard had covered Mikita's arm, also covering the fact that Mikita's rubbed raw skin had held his head in a lock. The man had dressed well by Jordanian illegal settler standards, the wrinkles on his face denoting his age, even in the dark.
Mikita didn't answer.
"You take us from our home." Mikita closed his arm around his neck tighter, his already ghostly voice becoming more strained and tired, the Beretta to the side of his head grinding into his ash colored scalp.
"You separate our family," Even tighter. The man had been speaking only to Mikita, no one else noticing.
"You leave our children traumatized." Tighter, and the man now audibly had problems breathing.
"You kill our neighbors." Tighter, and he could hear the man choke on his own throat.
"The difference a man makes in the world is only but a reflection of what the man is."
Mikita had gone blanked eyed. He didn't want to hear it. He grappled his neck harder and only after a few seconds, the man had choked out a few remaining breaths before falling limp in Mikita's arm like so many of those taken hostage, unconscious.
They got to base, and then they didn't keep their word. Spotlights had gone on the several dozen insurgents that followed them, but no one fired. Mostly everyone had anticipated Mikita to actually do the trade, even the Captain placing his hand on his sword, standing on ceremony. Troopers had gone to the FOB's walls and set up their rifles, insurgents inching closer, expectantly.
Franklin had gone back into the FOB, assigning a head for each man to shoot. A very low click into her radio delivering into Mikita's ear piece a ready signal if needed. She had anticipated it had been plan B if the exchange had gone south, he had thought otherwise of course.
Mikita had gently let the still unconscious men down on the sand floor like a child, face up toward the stars. In that moment he had kept his pistol behind his back, making sure the hammer was thumbed down.
Slowly, he looked back to all of Delta and the FOB, especially those who had taken hostages.
"Jump on the hostages, cover them with your bodies, fire in prone." He had ordered softly, as if it had been no big deal. Those who had understood had shock in their eyes as well as the blue stars above them. Those who hadn't got a hand on their shoulders as Mikita snapped his pistol forward in one hand, forced to their stomachs, most of the hostages being small children completely covered in the protection of the soldiers that got them there in the first place.
Mikita had fired first, his shooting stance almost perpendicular to his target, one handed. In the dark, the muzzleflash of his Beretta had seem to light up all the night a dozen times before the Insurgents knew that they had been lured into a trap. Given a proper weapon, Mikita might've taken them all out, but his squad and the FOB had been ready for the impromptu action. The dunes had popped with miniature explosions with the rain of fire going down. Bodies fell with hard thuds, the sound of battle rifles going out even louder.
They screamed for god, for mercy, for help, and for salvation. They weren't answered. No one was saved, even if they reached out towards the spotlights that blinded them, mistaking them for the light at the end of the tunnel.
Engagements like that were never drawn out. The winner was always decided before it ever began, and the victor had been the UNGA after the last of them was cut down. Children cried, Indian yells were had, and Mikita had stood before it all at the front, pistol locked back and dropped to the floor after swiveling on his trigger finger.
"What the hell was THAT for?!" A stray voice had called out, Mikita had thought it was the Captain, but he didn't care, hoarding everyone back inside the FOB, leaving the dead behind, waking up the entire base.
"That was me making a difference." He had answered softly to himself, looking down on the unconscious man before dropping him across his shoulders.
"When we go back to give back the hostages, we won't meet as much resistance." He had said aloud as a more palpable and public justification. As best as they could they tried to calm down the children who they had taken, but there was no greater sorrow to them than seeing their entire community fall apart around them, to see friends cut down by men that they couldn't have stopped.
War and the cruel fate it brought would scar the hostages forever, and perhaps they would all grow up to repeat this process all over again in the post-apocalyptic world.
Mikita and them, they weren't that different in that regard.
A/N: I hope that bad taste in your mouth isn't because I'm doing a bad job at writing. Do I want to be that guy who's making comments on a war I will never know what it's like to fight? Maybe. I've seen what it does to people. Both sides.
I'll get some of those pocket monsters back into the story soon enough. This world is only just that, a world in which this story that it inhabits. The world is not the story, and some people do that too much, shoehorning certain stalwart elements of their world front and center and taking away from their actual own creations and plot. I mean, sure, here the world and its history is certainly present as a backdrop, but just because Pokemon are there doesn't mean they have to be the subject. People and Pokemon are two distinctly different things anyway, to place regular character values of humans onto Pokemon is absurd. They have to clash, and that's what I intend to do. They do not belong in the world, but there is a a long running paradigm shift that's happening in the background of this story that will eventually make the wanted while also-
Eh, I think that's enough for now. One or two more interludes before we get back to it.