Two weeks earlier...
A stout snorlax morph sat at a heavy wooden desk in a small office room, casually eating doughnuts as he leaned back in his chair and peeked through the blinds at his inferiors sparring in the clearing outside his window.
It won't be long now, he thought. These FNG's have been a particularly troublesome bunch—especially that Benjamin Lanky. He's always out partying at any chance he gets! Then there's that Shiloh Sanderson kid, I don't know what exactly it is about him that I don't like. He doesn't really cause trouble, but...
The shrill ring of the 1990s-style telephone on his desk snapped the base commander out of his thoughts. He quickly reached for the red receiver, cursing as several stacks of papers fell to the floor in a disheveled mess.
"Talon Airbase," he answered the hotline from High Command.
"Colonel White?" a voice hissed, "I have some important orders for you."
"I'm at your command, Governor."
"We were performing routine background checks on your men and came across a particular marine under your command that we have some... concerns about."
"Concerns?" the snorlax inquired, casually picking up one of the pens that had fallen on the floor and placing it back in the jar on his desk. "Exactly what are these concerns, sir?"
"As you know Colonel, despite the fact we've all but destroyed their technologies, the surviving humans have been and still are a huge thorn in our side, raiding our outposts, stealing our weapons, and more importantly, costing us lives. Furthermore, there is a growing faction among our constituents that are suspicious of the history behind the war and possibly more… sympathetic to those retched humans. We've found more and more pokemorphs—including soldiers in our own armed forces—supporting insurgency, providing supplies, and even fighting alongside the humans. This is starting to become a concern to our military interests, and we've decided to crackdown and eliminate this threat before it gains too much momentum."
The Colonel grunted in agreement.
"Your marine, Private Shiloh Sanderson," the Governor continued. "We have reason to believe he's a human sympathizer that may be a risk to the safety of the base."
"What have you uncovered that gives you those concerns, sir?" the Colonel inquired, leaning back in his chair. "There wasn't anything noted in his dossier when he was transferred to my command."
There was a brief sound of someone typing on a keyboard, before the Governor finally responded. "At the time he was transferred to your command, we were not concerned about his excessive curiosity and his possible sympathies. Circumstances have changed now, and we believe he could be a potential threat and must therefore be eliminated. Don't worry Colonel, we're not holding you responsible or anything like that."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now, where was I..? Oh yes, the information we've got on Private Sanderson. Well, in his dossier, it is mentioned that his biological father was a leafeon pokemorph named Mark Sanderson. The same Mark Sanderson was a Captain in the 2nd Division, and participated in and was among those officially unaccounted for after the Battle of the Mississippi. Aside from the high-profile incident of Major General John Blyght turning rogue, we have done an excellent job of erasing any evidence that may incriminate us for the deaths of tens of thousands of our brave warriors and humiliate the PLA from our history sites. However, we have examined his search records on the internet and found that he appears to have an excessive curiosity about the events that transpired during the war. Although unlikely, there is a chance that if he digs deep enough he could uncover a loose end, and as you know, a cloth can unravel rather quickly once a loose thread is pulled."
"Permission to speak, sir," Colonel White exclaimed, sitting back upright in his chair.
"Granted, so long as you keep it short."
"Hundreds of soldiers in active duty had relatives involved in the Battle of the Mississippi, and none of them have been a problem," he pointed out. "Not to mention he's a marine, and the potential problem would be more related to someone with higher security clearance, like an Intelligence officer."
"You are correct," the Governor conceded. "That's actually only a small part of the reason we're worried about your marine. His step-parents are known by 'friends' to harbor doubts about the nature of the war we fought and routinely express sympathy for humans. Furthermore, Nightseekers recently raided an underground group linked to smuggling aid to humans living in the pens we've created for them, and discovered that his step-parents are regular contributors. Given that these two rogues have been Sanderson's primary influence in his upbringing, we feel that this could potentially pose a threat to our security."
The snorlax morph took the receiver away from his ear and sighed as he took in this avalanche of information, before putting the phone back against his feline ear. "Alright, so what do you want me to do with Private Sanderson."
"In a word, we want you to dispose of him."
"How do you want me to go about doing this?" the Base Commander asked, bringing up the marine-in-question's dossier on his computer and reading through it for ideas.
"That's up to you," the Governor hissed. "After all, your base is officially capable of launching independent operations; but do try to make it seem innocent. The Nightseekers have taken care of his parents, but you can't be too careful when there are scores of nosy reporters looking for a scoop. I'm pretty sure that a nice promotion will be waiting for you when you're done."
"Yes, thank you, sir," he replied, when something on the computer caught his eye. "Can cleaning house wait a little bit?"
"Depends on how long, why?"
"Private Sanderson turns eighteen in two weeks, and if I know his friends, I might have a reason to punish his squad then. His friends are a rather... adventurous bunch, and I believe I'll get the chance to give them a taste of a real adventure to satisfy their appetite, if you catch my drift. But we'll need a transport plane..."
"Very well, I'll make preparations to have my boys send over a T-7 outfitted for deployment in two weeks..."
~~oo0oo~~
Present time…
"Well?" Colonel White demanded, glaring at the stunned marines standing in front of him.
"We were out sparring behind the runway, sir," Lieutenant Kamone lied, for once looking quite unsure of himself as he glanced back at his squad.
"Sparring? You're going to have to come up with a better excuse than that," the snorlax morph boomed, slamming his clenched fist against the wall. "I've been sitting in my office all evening, in perfect view of the runways and not once did I catch a glimpse of any sparring! Did you really think I'd fall for that heap of bullshit?"
"It's the truth, sir," the Charmeleon lieutenant gulped.
The snorlax morph base commander strutted up to the group of marines and glared up at them in rage.
"You guys went out partying, didn't you?" Colonel White accused, in a knowing voice. "Decided to follow tradition and take your friend out drinking on his eighteenth birthday?"
The four marines exchanged worried glances. This just isn't my day, Shiloh thought.
"And it looks like you guys already got more than you bargained for," the Colonel continued, his squinty eyes focusing on Shiloh. "Upset the wrong guy, Private? You look like you went nine rounds. He Focus Punch your face in?"
"Er, actually it was a bottle of vodka, sir." Shiloh replied, instantly regretting it as Lieutenant Kamone stomped on his paw and he realized he'd just gave them away.
"So you were at the bar!" Colonel White roared. "And here I was just going to let you lousy layabouts off with a warning and some extra drills tomorrow. Now by your admission you were off base grounds against my direct orders!"
Shiloh looked around at his squad mates, to find them all glaring at him as if this was all his fault. Blame it all on me will you, he thought angrily. Going out drinking wasn't my idea in the first place!
"All of you, into my office. NOW." the Base Commander ordered, jerking open the door into the hallway of the barracks.
One-by-one, the marines filed through the door, with Shiloh bringing up the rear. All the way to the adjacent Administration building, he could feel Colonel White's beady eyes burning into the back of his head. If looks could kill, he would have been dead for sure.
After what seemed like an eternity of marching through the whitewashed brick hallways, the squad arrived in front of a heavy wooden door labeled "Base Commander." Colonel White quickly fished out his keys and unlocked the door, before turning to the marines.
"What are you waiting for, an invitation?" he grunted, motioning for the squad to follow him. "Inside. All of you."
Except for when he was transferred to Talon Airbase several months back, Shiloh had never been inside the Base Commander's office. The room looked more-or-less like a stereotypical office: a large wooden desk littered with paperwork and a large computer monitor mounted atop it made up the focal point of the room. Beside it, a mini-fridge sat on the floor within an arm's reach of the Base Commander's chair. Behind the desk were glass windows spanning from wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, allowing a clear view to all the activities that occurred on the airfield's tarmac and runways. To complete the room, a glass trophy case containing Colonel White's various medals and awards was mounted on the wall to the right of the marines, opposite a row of metal chairs.
Strategically-placed chairs, Shiloh thought, noticing how the chairs were arranged so that anyone sitting in them couldn't help but notice the Colonel's decorations across the room.
There was no time to think about that however, as Colonel White didn't bring them into his office to gloat. The tubby Base Commander motioned for the quartet of marines to sit down in the chairs as he angrily paced the floor in front of them.
"You should be ashamed of yourselves," the Colonel boomed, glaring at the group seated before him. "Of all the marines that have been based here during my 8 year career as Base Commander here, only this group has been this troublesome! I just don't know what I have to do to get it into your incredibly thick sculls that when I give an order, it is to be obeyed to the letter!"
Shiloh couldn't help but notice the extra venom the commander put into his glare when he looked at him. He's holding me as the responsible party for this, he thought. What have I done that puts me in the position of the ringleader of this group in his mind when there's so much evidence to the contrary? I mean, nothing says 'escapade mastermind' like getting hung from the flagpole, upside-down, by my belt just two days ago!
A sharp smack across the face snapped the vaporeon out of his thoughts.
"Already brewing up your next adventure with your pals, Private?" Colonel White asked in a sticky-sweet voice with his face so close that his nose was almost touching Shiloh's and the vaporeon couldn't help but smell the snorlax's muggy breath. "Is what I'm saying not important enough for you to listen?"
"No, sir," Shiloh gulped, shying away from the snorlax's face to gain any possible extra space between the two's uncomfortably close faces.
"What's the matter, Private?" the Colonel asked in mock sympathy, "Can you smell those onion rings I had earlier today? Does my breath sting that sensitive nose of yours? Making you sick to your stomach? Aww, poor baby."
Shiloh released his breath gratefully when the Base Commander stood back upright and resumed pacing in front of them. But unfortunately the snorlax wasn't finished.
"You know what makes me sick, Private?" he asked. "YOU DO! Yes, you! In fact, all of you! You and your sense of adventure. This is the Pokemorph Liberation Army! This isn't cub scouts and it definitely isn't a summer camp! We don't do adventure here, we do discipline!"
The four marines winced at the force behind their commander's words, but the four stayed silent, awaiting their sentence.
"I should assign you all KP for a month and confine you to your quarters for this," the snorlax said forcefully, glaring at the marines as he paced, before he suddenly got quiet, "but no, I know you guys. You'd just wait it out and go on another late-night adventure as soon as you felt my back was turned. I need something more drastic... something you'll remember..."
The Colonel trailed off and Shiloh followed him with his eyes as he strode over to the window and peered out through the blinds at the hanger where the T-7 was parked. When he turned around, the young Private couldn't miss the gleam in his eyes.
"You guys want adventure?" Colonel White asked. "I'll give you adventure. I'm sure you all saw that transport plane land here earlier this evening? Well, it stopped here to pick up a detachment of marines to airdrop in the Wilderness and escort a fuel convoy en route from the refineries in Alaska. Consider yourselves among those chosen. I'll see you in the briefing room—hungover or not—in full combat attire at oh-four hundred. Dismissed."
~oo0oo~
"Nice going, Dogface," Lieutenant Kamone muttered bitterly as Private Polsky closed the door to their room behind them. "Look what you've gotten us into now!" He grumbled as he jumped up on his bunk, yanked off one of his boots and threw it at Shiloh as the private sat down on his bunk across the room.
"Hey! That wasn't my fault!" Shiloh protested covering his head as the second boot flew narrowly missed him and hit the wall with a loud thump, causing a chorus of muffled complaints from the next room over.
"Oh really," the charmander morph grumbled in disbelief. "Because it certainly wasn't me who just had to go tell all right in front of the base commander!"
"Well it was no wonder he was suspicious in the first place," he shot back. "'Sparring behind the runway'? Yeah right! Who goes out sparring on their own accord at 11:30 at night in the dark?"
"Dogface has a point, you know," Private Polsky mildly pointed out from the bunk beneath the angry Lieutenant. "It was a pretty lousy excuse."
"No one asked your opinion, Private!"
"Lighten up, hot head!" Tarzan called from his bed above Shiloh. "We were overdue for being caught anyway, and we knew Ol' White would be lookin' for us tonight since it was Dogface's big one-eight. We pushed our luck, and we lost, and now we'll get to tag along with the escort party."
"Don't remind me," the Charmander groaned, pulling the fireproof sheets over his head. "I have leave in three weeks, and I didn't exactly want to spend it in hostile territory protecting some damn tankers!"
"C'mon, it isn't all bad," the breloom protested. "I mean, the real deal's way better than doin' drills all day, right? How bad can it be? You know how dumb humans are, they don't think! If we come across any, we'll just take 'em out and be back here doing drills in a fortnight!"
Shiloh listened silently as the marshstomp and charmander in the bunks across the room grunted in grudging agreement. He didn't feel like continuing in the conversation tonight, instead electing to turn over and try to get some sleep. This had been a helluva night: dragged to a bar, smashed-up in a bar fight, caught sneaking into the barracks, and then blamed by both his CO's for the whole ordeal. Now that he thought about it, his muzzle still ached from that vodka bottle that tagged him back in the bar.
Probably will black both my eyes, he thought irritably, turning over again in an effort to get to sleep. Then I'll never hear the end of it from Kamone!
But tonight, sleep wouldn't come. Tonight, he lay awake for hours, unable to take his mind off the fact that in the morning, he'd be off in a jet on an airdrop and escort mission into the wilderness where God-knows-what was waiting for him.
Why should I be worried? He asked himself in an effort to settle his racing mind. The only thing we might come across would be humans, and they're just inferior beings that are incapable of reason. ...Right?
He couldn't help but wonder, though, if humans couldn't reason, then how could they have built such expansive empires with such complicated economies and weaponry? The textbooks said that morphs really built and ran those, but then why did they say that the Great War was to overthrow the corruption of the humans? Then there was the fact that the Great War caused billions of casualties between the two factions, and that despite numerous offensives, the Federation had never been able to finish its push across North America. Hell, all of western Europe was declared off-limits to morphs until further notice by the Eurasian Empire, and the rumor in the PLA was that their advance had bogged down somewhere in Central Europe.
Something seriously didn't add up, and as his eyelids grew heavy, somehow Shiloh knew he would soon find out just what was really going on in the world outside the Federation.
~oo0oo~
"Shiloh! Dammit, Dogface! Wake up!"
"Ugh, what now?" the young vaporeon groaned as he sat up, groggily rubbing his eyes. "I just got to sleep!"
"It's 3:40!" Tarzan whispered urgently in his ear. "We've got to be at the briefing room in twenty! In full combat attire!"
"Shit!" The young marine exclaimed as he fell out of bed in a panic. From a quick glance around the room, he saw that Lieutenant Kamone and Private Polsky must have already left for the briefing room, their beds already pulled tight. Shaking the last remaining traces of sleep from his body, Shiloh hastily slipped into his camouflage combat fatigues, put on his belt, and yanked on his boots. He quickly pulled the sheets on his bed so tight someone could bounce a penny off of it—just like he was supposed to—before racing after his breloom friend toward the locker room to fetch his body armor.
His paws skidded on the tile floor as he rounded the turn into the locker room. As he entered, however, he was met by Lieutenant Kamone.
"There you guys are!" the charmeleon exclaimed, before checking his watch and pushing past the pair. "You'd better hurry. We're to be in the briefing room in... ten minutes! Polsky's already there!"
"Yes, sir," the two late-risers replied, before rushing into the locker room.
Shiloh quickly made his way to his locker at the end of the row on the far side of the room and fumbled around with his lock. Seventeen, twenty-six, twenty-one, eleven... There! The lock popped open with a muted click, and he yanked it off and tore open his locker. He sighed as he pulled his body armor off the hook in the back and hoisted it over his shoulders, fastening the straps around his body. He grabbed his pack next, and then quickly retrieved his helmet, his solar-powered watch, and his pistol from the top shelf in his locker.
"Five minutes, man," Tarzan called, sliding his own pistol into its holster as he left for the briefing room, leaving Shiloh alone in the room.
"See you there!" the vaporeon replied, examining himself to make sure he had his equipment in order.
He was about to close his locker when a glint caught his eye and made him stop. He opened his locker back up and curiously looked for the source of the light: a small black leather book with gold lettering printed on the cover. Beside it, a small photo of his family before he left for the Marine Corps, two of his most prized possessions. He carefully pulled the two items out from the back of his locker and looked at them in his paw.
"You know what," he said to no one in particular. "I'd better bring you two. Who knows if I'll ever get back here again."
Glancing around to make sure no one had come in after Tarzan left, he carefully slid the book and photo into the inside pocket of his vest. He then shut his locker and replaced the lock, before checking his watch. Three minutes...just enough time to get there!