Hello. My name is Shiloh Sanderson.
My father was a Leafeon morph who was conscripted into the war against human oppression when I was very young. I never knew my mother—she died from complications with my birth; I instead grew up under the care of my uncle and aunt, an Espeon and Glameow morph couple. War was an abstract idea to me, nothing more than a show on TV. I had always seen it as something that happened in some far away land, without any real connection to the life I myself lived. That is, until that fateful day in October, just before my ninth birthday...
I remember it as if it were just yesterday. It was late that night—long past my bedtime, I had got up to get a drink of water. As I quietly padded through the hallway, I noticed light coming from the den. My aunt and uncle were still up watching television, a rarity since the PLA knocked out much of the world's communications network and only two channels seemed to still work. My curiosity got the best of me, and I crept as quietly as I could toward the archway that led into the den. I quietly peered around the corner and I'll never forget what I saw.
On the TV was a video of an explosion much larger than anything I'd ever seen before. The cloud of smoke resembled a giant, flaming mushroom stretching high into the sky, making everything around it—even the burning buildings surrounding it—look like mere toys. Given my age, I would have probably thought it was cool; but this time, something was different. A news morph was interviewing a black and orange dragon morph dressed in a uniform like my dad wore. I didn't fully understand what the morph was saying, but I understood the gist of it. A lot of morphs had died in something called a "nuclear explosion," and it was all the humans' fault.
I tore my gaze from the television and dared to peak my head around the corner a little farther to see my makeshift parents' reactions. My aunt was sobbing with her face buried deep in her husband's glossy, violet fur. My uncle, meanwhile, was doing his best to comfort his wife, but there was no mistaking the worry in his expression.
"Didn't they say the 2nd Division was among the hardest hit?" my aunt sobbed. "Whatever are we going to tell poor Shiloh if that manila envelope comes in the mail telling us Mark was among those killed?"
"It won't come in the mail," my uncle replied, trying to reassure her, but it was difficult to miss the lack of conviction in his words—even at my age. "If anyone is going to make it, my brother will."
"But what if he doesn't? What will happen to Shiloh? He'll-"
"We'll adopt him if it happens. That's what Mark would want. It'll all turn out okay."
I turned away and raced back to my room with my Eevee ears covered, not wanting to hear more. I suddenly wasn't so thirsty anymore. I dove into my bed and buried myself under my covers wishing desperately that this was somehow just a nightmare and that I'd wake up and my real father would be home, asking if I wanted to go out and play catch or something. But that was not meant to be. Sure enough, that dreaded manila envelope my foster mother mentioned came in the mail a couple weeks later confirming the worst: my father was among those missing and presumed dead after the detonation.
I was devastated. It was as if my whole world had shattered into a million pieces like a glass pane hitting the floor. I never fully recovered from my loss. My aunt and uncle immediately adopted me, and I lived the rest of my kithood as if I was one of their own. I was the oldest child in my (adopted) family, and I did my best to be a good example like any older brother would.
One would have thought that I would have hated the humans for the death of my father, and for a while, I most certainly did. However, my parents always told me to think for myself—ironically, an old human adage—not just accept everything at its face value. By the time of my early teenage years, modern infrastructure in America had been repaired enough from the damage caused by the EMP at the start of the war to return the internet to at least partial service in the cities. I spent much of my time researching the history of the war, and the deeper I dug, the more suspicious I became of it. The textbooks and PLA-controlled media said that the humans were responsible for causing the war and much of its destruction; but the deeper I searched, the less the evidence seemed to support this claim.
We now lock the surviving humans away behind fortified towers and walls in decaying city ruins and camps. We give them barely enough food to survive, force them to live in the most…inhumane conditions, and keep them around for… entertainment. Those shows… those horrible shows where the military goes through the humans' camp and selects a pawful of them to fight each other to the death for our species' entertainment. They say it's because humans treated us like this since time began and that they're getting what they 'deserve'; but if we're so much better than them like everyone says, why do we treat them like this and perhaps more importantly, why are we okay with it? Anyone with any basic morality should object to how we treat them, yet for some strange reason, nobody does.
I get the feeling that there is more to what is going on here than meets the eye. I feel like I'm missing one big piece of the puzzle, a piece I have yet to find. I would have continued my quest for answers, but by some twist of fate, I ended up getting drafted to be a Marine fighting for a cause that I don't believe in. I don't know where exactly where my life will lead me from here, but I know one thing for certain: I'm going to keep trying to unravel the mystery of the past that no one seems willing to discuss.
~~oo0oo~~
"Razing the Bar"
11/16/2039 – 21:41
Pvt. Shiloh Sanderson, Vaporeon Pokemorph
1st Battalion, 10th Marine Regiment, Pokemorph Liberation Army (PLA)
Fort Talon, Colorado Region.
"I can't believe you guys talked me into this!" Shiloh Sanderson, a young Vaporeon pokemorph, lamented as his squad-mates pushed him up a hill toward a small pub situated on the outskirts of the small, frontier town of Fort Talon.
"C'mon, everyone goes out partying on their eighteenth birthday," a muscular Breloom morph reassured the nervous Eeveelution morph as he led—or rather pushed—him toward the entrance of the bar. "Have we ever steered you wrong before?"
"Actually..."
"Never mind! Don't answer that."
The group of young Marines noisily made their up the moon-lit stone path toward the small, converted ski lodge that sat alone on a grassy hill overlooking the town below. Even from a good distance away, the cheering and shouting of the morphs the pub contained could easily be heard by the young Vaporeon's sharp ears, further unnerving him.
"Guys, I don't know..." he stammered. "If Colonel White ever finds out, he'll have our necks. And he's not particularly fond of me to begin with."
"Aw, grow a pair, Dogface! You'd never have any fun if we didn't help you along," Lieutenant Kamone, a broad-shouldered Charmeleon morph with spiky blonde hair grunted from the back of the group. "And besides," he continued, "you 'owe' it to us to do this since we helped you evolve!"
"Yeah, thanks for nothing," Shiloh retorted bitterly.
"Now, now Shiloh, why so bitter?" a nasal sounding voice, this time belonging to the Marshstomp morph, Private Fritz Polsky, on the Vaporeon's left, quipped. "We're all friends here, yes? And besides, everyone knows that it's a military tradition that a morph's squad-mates sneak him out to the local bar on the night of his birthday!"
"Yeah, everyone including Colonel White," Shiloh muttered to himself darkly.
"You're just being paranoid, Dogface," Sergeant 'Tarzan' Lanky, the Breloom morph behind him grunted. "White's just an old gasbag anyway. He's full of talk, but lacking in the action department! He'd much rather sit back and pig out from his mini fridge than interfere with us!"
Shiloh sensed the mounting annoyance among his fellow Marines, and decided it best to just shut his muzzle and go along with their plan for now. And he had to admit that he was at least somewhat excited about the element of danger that sneaking off the base to party brought. If the Colonel caught them, they'd be doing Kitchen Patrol for the rest of their lives, but if not, it'd make a helluva story. Not to mention that as of today, he could legally drink, so he supposed that this was a 'rite of passage' sort of thing.
Tarzan Lanky took the lead in the last few steps to the heavy oak double doors of the bar, and paused to point at a sign tacked to the wall beside the door.
"THOU SHALT NOT LIGHT—NO SMOKING AND ABSOLUTELY NO FIRE-BASED ATTACKS. -Brandon Psy, barkeep." the sign read.
"Well, I guess I have nothing to worry about, then," Shiloh grinned.
"Guess not," Tarzan chuckled.
Then, in a swift motion with his hulking hands, the Breloom morph threw the double doors open and proudly strutted inside as the bar's occupants all paused to stare at the newcomers. Shiloh was slightly unnerved by the attention his Breloom buddy drew to their entry, but quickly regained his composure and looked around at rugged faces that were now turning back to resume their various activities.
A Tyranitar and an Aggron morph were busy arm wrestling on a sturdy wooden table, while a pawful of fire-types stood around a billiard table in the back of the room as a Blaziken and a Ninetales dressed in black leather jackets played Eight-ball. A group of fighting-types were seated at the bar, drinking and watching highlights of the pokemorph battling tournament from earlier in the day on the TV mounted on the wall. At the beer tap a short distance from them, a stocky Gallade morph with light brown hair that Shiloh could only deduce to be the barkeep, was busy talking with a stout Grunbull morph whom he presumed was a regular visitor.
Shiloh followed his fellow Marines to a round table off in the corner, taking the seat closest to the window as Tarzan marched straight to the bar to buy the drinks without even asking what to order. This must be where they sneak off to every weekend, so he must have their orders down pat, Shiloh thought, as he watched the Breloom stride to the counter and get the Gallade morph bartender's attention.
The pair just stood and talked for the longest time, before Tarzan turned and motioned for the Vaporeon to come to where he was.
"Hi there, kiddo, have a seat," the bartender smiled, motioning for the Vaporeon to sit down at one of the bar stools. "Tarzan here tells me you just turned eighteen."
"Yep, just today, actually."
"Well, happy birthday to ya then," the Gallade congratulated, giving Shiloh a quick slap on the back. "'I'm Brandon, the owner of this here pub. Shiloh, was it?"
"Er, yeah. It's a pleasure to meet you, Brandon." Shiloh replied, subconsciously rubbing the back of his head.
"Feel free to stay as long as you like," the bartender invited good-naturedly. "Just be careful of some of the guys here. They're all good fellas, but catch 'em at a bad moment and I'll be replacing windows and shelves again!" Without waiting for a response, the barkeep continued, "Anyway, since this is yer first time out, I'll be extra careful that I don't make you anything that will leave you totally soused. After all, we don't want ol' Colonel White finding out of yer guys little exploits!"
"Right, thanks, Brandon," Shiloh stammered, before leaving he and Tarzan to continue their conversation.
It wasn't long before a familiar Breloom returned with several varieties of drinks. He handed a glass full of a dark green liquid to Fritz, who eagerly sipped at the strong smelling drink. Lieutenant Kamone accepted a cherry-red cocktail, before Tarzan handed Shiloh a cocktail glass full of a peach colored slush-resembling the texture of a smoothie or something. Instinctively, Shiloh gave it a tentative sniff. The beverage had a light peachy odor, along with the unmistakable scent of some variety of alcohol.
Rather cautiously, Shiloh brought the glass to his muzzle and took a sip. Although there was no mistaking the dryness of the alcohol, the frosty beverage was sweet and remarkably tasty. Shiloh gave the barkeep a nod of approval, before turning his attention back to his comrades to take part in the conversation.
~oo0oo~
Shiloh let out a contented sigh as he finished drinking the last drops of his fruity beverage. With the exception of Tarzan, who was just hanging around to give him company, he was the only one still sitting at the table; the others had all gone off to other activities around the converted ski lodge. After thanking Tarzan for the drink, Shiloh wandered off toward the pool table, where the same Ninetales from before was preparing to duel a Machop morph who had been watching the battle tournament highlights earlier.
Shiloh squeezed through the crowd for a better look, finally deciding on a vacant spot next to Fritz in the back corner as the two players placed wagers on the outcome. The game started with a bang, with the Ninetales morph quickly knocking in three of the solid colored balls. The Machop, answered by knocking in a pair of stripes and leaving the Cue ball in such a location that left his opponent with virtually no shot. The game stayed close the rest of the way, with one knocking in a ball and the other answering, until there were only two balls left: the 8-ball and one of the stripes. It was the Machop's turn, he took aim, and with a muffled thump, the stripe disappeared into one of the side pockets. All that remained was the Eight. The Machop called his shot for the corner pocket, and with practiced precision, sent the black sphere rolling into the aforementioned pocket for the win.
The crowd, with the exception of the group of jacket-clad fire-types in the back, all applauded. "Someone finally beat Jack, I don't believe it!" a Tauros morph cheered.
"Good game, man," the Machop congratulated, offering to shake paws with the Ninetales, who promptly refused.
"Time to pay up, Jack!" Tarzan shouted from the other side of the table, to roars of approval from everyone else.
"I ain't coughing up anything," the Ninetales replied flatly, rising to his full height.
"What was that, Jack?" Shiloh challenged, pushing through the crowd to face the fire-type in front of the pool table.
"I said, I won't be paying that bastard a damn cent!" Jack countered, the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath stinging the Vaporeon's sensitive nose. "And who's gonna make me? You, mermaid-morph?"
"Damn straight I am," Shiloh said, his deep blue eyes glaring into the taller morph's brown eyes defiantly. "You lost the game, now pay what is due!"
"Jack said he ain't payin', so he ain't payin'," a six-and-a-half foot tall Blaziken morph bellowed, hoisting the much smaller Vaporeon up by his camoflague uniform and slamming him against the wall as both a Magmortar and a Houndour morph, both wearing identical leather jackets, stepped forward to flank him.
Great going, Shiloh. You should have just stayed out of this one… Out of the corner of his eye, Shiloh could see his fellow Marines pushing through the crowd to back him up. Alright, at least I'm not alone on this one.
"Put him down, man," Tarzan warned, cracking his knuckles as he advanced toward the fire-types. "We don't want any trouble tonight."
"You heard him, put me down," Shiloh choked out, trying to regain his composure before one of the goons could pick up on his rising anxiety. Unfortunately, his efforts were in vain.
"You would you look at that?" Jack taunted from behind his goons. "Soldier boy here is nothing but a big chicken! Look at him! He looks about ready to piss himself!"
"This coming from the coward who hides behind a seven foot Blaziken," Shiloh retorted, as he frantically searched for a means of escape.
His eyes finally rested upon a wooden trophy shelf above his head. Oh God, please let this work, he thought as he grabbed a hold onto the shelf, brought his legs up and kicked the Blaziken square in the chest.
The force of the blow threw the lanky fire-type off his feet and crashing to the floor, leaving Shiloh dangling from the trophy shelf as both the Magmortar and Houndour morph advanced to restrain him. Just before the two reached him, however, the shelf gave a loud groan, before it pulled out of the wall. Shiloh yelped in surprise as the board came away in his paws and he fell to the floor as various trophies rained down around him upon anyone who was unfortunate enough to be standing nearby; among them, Jack and his goons.
Unfortunately, the diversion didn't last long. Just as Shiloh had managed to shake the stars out of his head and get to his feet, the Blaziken, who had been throttling him against the wall just seconds earlier, kicked the Vaporeon's legs out from under him. Shiloh grunted in pain as he fell back hard on his back and the wind was knocked out of him. But instinct kicking in, he forced himself to his paws despite the undeniable pain in his chest and caught the Blaziken right in the face with a reverse roundhouse kick, sending the lanky Pokemorph stumbling backwards over the pool table.
Shiloh hastily scanned his surroundings, expecting one or more of Jack's buddies to be rushing him. However, he quickly discovered that his squad-mates had come to his aid, and were busy grappling with the unruly fire-types. Shiloh also soon discovered that they weren't the only ones fighting; in fact, it seemed there wasn't a single place in the whole bar that wasn't filled with a writhing mob of morphs fighting each other using whatever they could find!
Shiloh had to duck as a beer stein smashed into the wooden wall and shattered into pieces right where his head had been only a fraction of a second earlier.
"Shiloh, Tarzan, Fritz," Lieutenant Kamone, the only one of his squad-mates who hadn't come to his aid against Jack, shouted above the incredible racket. "We need to get out of here! Forget Jack's gang!"
With pleasure, Shiloh thought, picking up the snapped shelf to use as a shield as a potted plant smashed on the pool table just feet from where he stood, pelting him with pieces of shattered pottery.
Everything seemed to slow down as he desperately searched for the easiest route to the door. There was none. Every possible route to the door was filled with the chaos of the bar fight. He'd have to charge right through the middle of the chaos and pray that he didn't get clocked by one of the many airborne objects chis-crossing the airspace inside the converted lodge.
Taking a step back, he crouched down and waited for his chance, the shelf held out in front of him like a shield. One… A Snover picked up a barstool and threw it across the room, then followed up with throwing the contents of a glass in another morph's face. Two… The Blazikan morph from before turned and Blaze Kicked some unfortunate soul into the bar counter. Three… Shiloh drew a breath, the action was beginning to ease up slightly as drunken morphs scrambled to get more ammo to throw. Just a second more and… NOW!
Shiloh dug his foot claws into the wooden floor and bolted for the door during a break in the action. Unfortunately for him, the chaos ratcheted back up as quickly as it had died down, and it came back with a vengeance! A Raichu morph drunkenly swung a Thunder Punch at him as he dashed through the mob. Thankfully, the Raichu's drunkenness had lulled the Pokemorph's reflexes and Shiloh side-slipped the attack with little difficulty, only feeling a slight tingling sensation from the close proximity to the attack.
He scrambled several steps further, only for a flying bottle of vodka to smash him in the muzzle, sending him crashing to the floor on his back. Shiloh clutched his nose as blood gushed into his paw and blinked through the tears just in time to make out a massive foot of a Tropius morph descending towards him. He quickly rolled out of the way, but not quick enough, as the massive grass-type's foot came down on the finned tip of his tail.
God dammit! Shiloh swore mentally, clenching his teeth to suppress a yelp of pain as the sensitive nerves of his tail fin were crushed against the oak flooring under a substantial amount of weight.
However, the weight wasn't there for long, as the Tropius drunkenly threw an Energy Ball into the crowd and stumbled backwards over an overturned chair. Shiloh immediately took advantage of his newly-regained freedom, and ignoring the stabbing pain in his literal tail, scampered to his feet and continued a desperate dash for the door.
He narrowly avoided a flying bar stool as he slipped through the chaos along a row of overturned tables. The stool instead sailed over his head and just missed Brandon, who stood in his place beside the beer tap, casually observing the chaos consuming his bar. The airborne seat continued its flight for a couple more feet until it smashed into the racks of liquor lining the wall behind the counter, sending bits of broken glass and assorted varieties of strong-smelling alcohol raining out over the counter.
Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Shiloh was now only about twenty or thirty feet from the exit and safety. Unfortunately for him, he observed, the door was blocked by a free-for-all between the fighting-type jocks and Jack's pyrotechnic pals.
No way around it, I'll have to go through it!
By an amazing stroke of luck, the Tropius from before had angrily picked up the chair that tripped him (or rather he tripped over), and wound up to throw it in frustration, but a Snover morph hit him square in the gut a split second before he threw, causing the chair to sail wildly through the air... Right over Shiloh's head and through the window immediately to his left! It was like an answer to Shiloh's prayers!
Without so much as a second thought, Shiloh dove through the shattered remains of the window to freedom! He landed in a gorse bush hedge, the sharp leaves scratching him even through his uniform and pelt, but he didn't feel it. He was still in fight-or-flight mode, and flight was currently all that was on his mind. He ran full-pelt down the slope, until his forward momentum was faster than he could run and he stumbled forward and tumbled to an undignified halt at the bottom of the hill.
"Dammit," he swore as he bit his tongue.
"Certainly took you long enough," a gruff voice scolded.
"Yeah, nice to see you too, Kamone," Shiloh retorted, getting to his feet; only to be knocked back to the ground by a well-timed punch to the gut by the aforementioned Charmeleon.
"That's Lieutenant Kamone to you, Dogface," the Charmeleon stated flatly to the stunned Vaporeon. "I suggest you remember that you're talking to your superior next time!"
"Yes sir…" Shiloh wheezed, forcing himself to bite back a retort. His adrenaline had rapidly died out, and he was now feeling full effects of the gorse thorns and the blows he'd taken in the bar and from his supposed 'friend'.
"Sorry 'bout that, Shiloh," Tarzan said, as he and Fritz appeared from the shadows, sporting a couple new scratches from their adventure inside. "Y'know how Kamone is-"
"C'mon guys! You too, Dogface! We have to get back to the barracks before Colonel White finds out." Lieutenant Kamone called, already striding down the dimly-lit road back to town.
"You okay?" Fritz asked quietly as he and Tarzan helped Shiloh up to his feet.
"Yeah, I'm fine," the Vaporeon morph finally replied as they reached the sidewalk.
The trio caught up to their fire-type squad leader and continued walking down the road for several moments in an awkward silence. Finally, Shiloh spoke up.
"Hey guys, could I ask you something?" he began, gingerly pulling thorns out of his tail as he walked.
Lieutenant Kamone snorted, but Tarzan nodded for Shiloh to continue.
"When we got into that fight with Whatshisname, why the hell did the whole bar randomly start fighting? And why didn't Brandon seem even remotely fazed?"
"Dunno exactly," Tarzan replied. "Alcohol does funny things to folks. Give 'em enough and even the mellowest morph could turn violent in a split second. Jack an' his pals are just a bunch of rowdy assholes, so it ain't no shock that trouble seems to follow 'em around. I think what got the whole bar fighting, though, was when one of them trophies that fell off the shelf hit Aaron—that's the Aggron morph we saw when we came in—an' he punched the guy behind him. As for Brandon, well, I've begun to suspect the guy secretly lives for the excitement factor of bar fights!"
"Seems like a rather expensive form of entertainment."
~oo0oo~
Shiloh couldn't help a sigh of relief as the forest surrounding the mountain road abruptly opened to reveal the silhouette of the airfield they called "home." Talon Airbase, or "The Tab" was situated atop an artificial plateau that had been cut into the side of the mountain, just like a tab on a file folder. The airfield itself consisted of a pair of barracks, four hangars, two intersecting runways, and a communication tower, plus all the essential equipment for defense. From the Marines' position up the mountain, Shiloh could easily make out the dim silhouette of the cement runways glinting in the light of the barracks.
The deafening roar of a jet plane shook the trees above the Marines' heads as the large, graceful form of a T-7 two-engine transport plane descended onto the runway below. Although an elegant airplane, Shiloh was always filled with dread when they landed at the airbase. T-7s were nearly always used for airdrop missions, and often resupplied at Talon Airbase before carrying its cargo of troops and war equipment across the border to No-Morph's Land, where the humans resided. Much of the plane's cargo would never return to the North American Federation.
"C'mon, guys!" Lieutenant Kamone hissed, leading the group of Marines around along the chain link fence to the far side of the runway.
The Marines, with the exception of Shiloh, walked confidently through the undergrowth, an obvious sign this wasn't the first time they had done this. Eventually, they came to a place at the end of the second runway where the fence was completely torn away. The fence, as Shiloh recalled, had been torn away several months back when one of the fighters had blown an engine on takeoff and careened through the fence. The pilot ejected and escaped with only wounded pride, but the plane was totaled.
The plane had since been replaced by the PLA, but because of funding and material shortages, the fence had yet to be repaired. Probably don't think the humans will ever make it far enough to pose a serious threat to this base, Shiloh thought. Even though it isn't even two hundred miles from the border.
The Marines quietly crept through the gap in the fence and made a beeline for their barracks. They started off in a walk, but quickly built to a full-out sprint as they cut across the runways and through the grass toward their place of residence. When the quartet came to the tarmac, Lieutenant Kamone changed his direction without warning. Instead of crossing the well-lit tarmac directly toward the main entrance of their barracks, he led the group into the shadows behind an aircraft hangar and slowed to a walk.
The only light they had as they sneaked around to the back entrance of the barracks was the fire on Lieutenant Kamone's tail. The darkness wasn't a problem for Shiloh, since his species had good night vision. However, Fritz the Marshstomp, followed close behind the Charmeleon, most definitely using the lizard's tail to see.
After what felt like an eternity of sneaking along the hollow aluminum building, they finally came to the entrance to the storage closet of their barracks.
"Ol' Colonel White never bothers to check this door," the fiery lizard explained. "I doubt the old geezer even knows it exists!"
In an almost arrogant fashion, the Charmeleon unlocked the door and the Marines walked into a pitch dark room. As Shiloh shut the door behind them, he and his fellow Marines were suddenly blinded as the storeroom lights came on.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Shiloh realized with sudden dread who the figure standing in the door was.
"Ah, Lieutenant Kamone," an obese blue and white morph in an olive-colored uniform decorated with multiple medals and a silver eagle pin fastened on his cap sneered. "How nice of you and your squad-mates to return! And I see Private Sanderson's with you too. Now, would anyone care to tell me where my Marines have been?"