V M Storytime with Zuzu

Hela

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The Girls
“All right,” Hela muttered as she sat down next to a bandaged and heavily sedated Azula. “Since you’re here for a while, I thought I’d pick you up a book to read.” Despite the IV drip, the princess jerked toward Hela, her eyes narrowed will ill-intent before the younger woman realized she’d been shackled to the hospital bed. “Now, now … we don’t need you yanking a stitch,” Hela looked at the beeping machine and pressed a few buttons until one of them was the morphine drip.

Eyes lolling from side to side, a semi-comatose Azula slumped back down onto her bed as Hela sneered and patted her on the top of the head. “There, there my little would-be warlord, let’s read a story. I hear this one is particular unpleasant, but I’ll censor anything that isn’t appropriate for your ears.”

With a last snicker, Hela picked up the text she’d bought from the Syntech bookstore—apparently it was some best seller in another realm. On the cover of the book, the words ‘Mein Kampf’ were penned in a dramatically eloquent fashion. Turning to the first page, the Asgardian queen began to read the story aloud for her subject audience.


***​

Chapter 1: Egression

Squirtle are born all the time, but every now and then, one of the tiny little hatchlings is born with a dream. No one, not even the self-proclaimed ‘Pokémon Masters,’ have managed to determine how or why this phenomenon occurs—its just does. As the mother Squirtle was tending to the more primitive hatchlings, one of the small, infantile turtles started to waddle away. He was only a few minutes old, and he was already well on his way to mastering the art of bipedal movement.

As the Tiny Turtle moved from the nest, he lifted his head and grinned at the world he saw. In his heart, he knew that he was different from all the others. Never again would the world of man stereotype Pokémon as weak and servile creatures. All those unevolved cretins were soon going to have to contend with the genetic superiority that was Squirtle. With the myriad thoughts of supremacy swirling about in his mind, the azure reptile made his way to the edge of a small stream.

The world was waiting out there, and it was about time that the amphibious animal embraced it head-on. Reaching one of his pudgy arms behind his back, the Pokémon quickly checked to ensure that his shell had hardened. Squirtle usually have their shells harden shortly after emerging from the egg, and this Tiny Turtle was no exception to that rule. After running his stout little digits down the course of his dense, brown carapace, the petite reptile dove into the water headfirst.

Leaving behind his rural, podunk origins, Squirtle pulled his tiny legs and arms into the comfy, guarded recesses of his shell and grinned. For a moment or two, he swore he could see a few of his brothers and sisters gawking at him as he drifted away, but he quickly shook the thoughts from his mind. Those individuals were behind him now, and he was now one turtle against the world or more correctly—the universe.

After what seemed to be an hour or so, Squirtle finally noticed the first signs of an urban metropolis looming on the horizon. The Tiny Turtle pivoted his body, aimed toward the bottom of the creak, and fired a stream of water from his toothless maw. Although he was still in his infancy, the amphibious Pokémon had enough power to propel his diminutive body clear from the water. Squirtle withdrew his cranium into the safety of his shell moments before he crashed painlessly into a pile of raked leaves.

Snickering at how opportune he was, the newborn turtle popped his limbs out from the confines of his shell and surveyed his surroundings. He had landed in someone’s backyard in the suburbs outside of the large city he had seen on the horizon. It would still be another mile or so before he got to the urban zone, but Squirtle figured he should take the time to adapt to moving on land.

It was at that moment that the object caught the Pokémon’s attention. They were sunglasses—shaped like two triangles that had been placed on their sides and fused at their apexes. Undoubtedly misplaced accessories for a doll of some sorts, the ebony glasses were now the property of Squirtle. Waddling over to the discarded object, the cyan reptile picked them up in his fat fingers and placed them over his developing eyes. Despite lacking external ears and having a rather two-dimensional nose, the sunglasses fit perfectly upon the Tiny Turtle’s visage.

“Squirtle!” The small animal uttered, bopping his head in a display of how cool he knew he was. With his immature eyes now properly shielded from the harmful UV rays of the sun, the turtle threw his right hand up, his index and middle fingers extended to form a V. It was a symbol of victory—not just victory for Squirtle, but victory for all oppressed Pokémon everywhere. The times were about to change.
***​

Squirtle fixed the sunglasses one more time and started toward the enormous structure. A day or so had passed since his birth, and already he was beginning to learn of the world around him. Formed from some type of strange, dull material, it stood as a symbol of human expansion and urbanization. The glitterier the structure, the more corrupt and superfluous its inhabitants likely would be. The Tiny Turtle frowned at the building and wished he had the strength to tear it down with his bare hands. Unfortunately, he was barely half a foot tall, and the house stood as a bastion of humanity’s dominance over Earth. Soon Squirtle would be strong enough to plow through such a pitiful structure and make way for the planet to return to its true, primal roots.

The Pokémon spat a tiny squirt of water at the base of the abode and quickly rushed around it to avoid any retaliation from its villainous, human occupants. As the azure reptile clumsily ran away from the structure, he was startled by the sudden presence of a massive, red monster in front of him. Hitting the side of the beast, the turtle was knocked onto his carapace and temporarily dazed. Looking up at the sky, Squirtle saw one of them—a human. Her diminished size indicated that she was possibly an infantile version of her oppressive species.

Before the Tiny Turtle had an opportunity to react, the creature reached down with one of her massive, dirty hands and began to lift the Pokémon off the ground and away from freedom. Squirtle tried to squirm and attempted to scratch and bite at the monstrosity’s oppressive hand. Despite his efforts, his claws and teeth were far too underdeveloped to do damage to her battle-hardened flesh. It only took a matter of seconds for the amphibious superstar to be successfully kidnapped and taken inside the confines of the cretin’s dwelling. Squirtle cried out as the door slammed shut.

The prisoner was thoroughly enraged at losing his new sunglasses, but he soon realized he was in real danger. Squirtle could now hear the human’s conversing with one another—probably reveling in how they had captured him. The blue-skinned reptile fidgeted, but he failed to escape the vice-like grip of the toddler. Even worse, the Tiny Turtle couldn’t understand what they were plotting. That feeling of helplessness truly vexed the amphibious prodigy, who made a promise to himself to learn the language of the human’s if he ever escaped from this demonic citadel alive.

Unfortunately, the situation was about to take a turn from the horrid to the completely and utterly bleak. The small monster was on the move once more, but this time she stopped for a moment in front of what Squirtle identified as some type of flat surface for placing garments. With her free hand, the small human cleared a region and dropped some type of clear, topless object upon the white surface. Then the turtle was moving once more, and before he could protest, he had already been dropped into the tiny box.

That’s when the horrible realization emerged: This diminutive Homo sapiens intended to imprison Squirtle! The Tiny Turtle understood that he needed to react quickly or else he was never going to see the light of day again. Turning his head down toward the bottom of the prison, the Pokémon unleashed to small torrent of water. The pressure launched him out of the cell and up into the mound of clothes that child had shifted around.

Ignoring the squeak of surprise that escaped the lips of the toddler, Squirtle dove through the loose mounds of clothing and fought his way down until he could no longer hear the whimpers. After another moment or so, the azure turtle emerged from the pile of clothes near an open gateway to the outdoors. Feeling a new wave of glee rush over his miniscule frame, the Pokémon lunged at the exit, but instead of freedom, he was greeted with some type of barely visible barrier.

Falling backwards, Squirtle shot up his pudgy appendages, grasping an extended ledge that overlooked a long drop to the floor. Grunting, the amphibious superstar pulled himself up onto the outlook and glared at the crisscrossed ropes that prevented what could have been a flawless escape. The sounds of footsteps encroaching upon his current position indicated that Squirtle had to do or die. Bending at the knees, he lowered his head and rushed forward. An inch or so before the barrier, he jumped up and withdrew into his shell.

The inflexible wires caved when put up against the dense shell of Squirtle, and a moment later, the Tiny Turtle crashed into a soft bed composed of dirt and sticks. Looking around, the azure reptile quickly realized he had landed in the den of some type of oviparous animal. Evacuating the nest, the blue-skinned Pokémon slowly started his descent down the relatively small tree. When he finally reached the soft, lush grass once again, he fell to his knees and smiled. Before departing the yard of what could have been his jailors, he retrieved his sunglasses. Then he quickly fled to the relative safety of a nearby patch of trees.

Pushing his tiny noggin out through a rather light clump of soft leaves, Squirtle surveyed the path that lie ahead of him. He had only been in the patch of trees for a few minutes, and it seemed he had already reached some type of temporary break or termination in the forest. As far as he could see to the left and right, the ground was black, hot, and solid, with a vibrant sun-colored strip down the center. The trees continued along the other side of the stretch of unnatural, manmade dirt.

The Tiny Turtle suddenly heard the most horrible, loud rumbling noise. Turning his small cranium, he was alarmed by the presence of two huge, glowing eyes rushing toward him. Letting out an infantile squeak, the Pokémon fled back to the relative safety of the brush. He would continue his trek some other way that didn’t intercede with the horrific machinations of Homo sapiens. With his head held low to the ground, Squirtle sprinted north, the same direction from which the shiny-eyed beast had originated from.

A sudden, bright object suddenly caught the attention of the charging reptilian. Stopping in his tracks, the amphibious superstar slowly approached the discarded object. It was a massive, red quadrilateral that was emblazoned with a hemisphere in the center. Squirtle waddled over to the apparatus and ran his tiny digits over the letters on the cover. The first part of the word was rather easy to understand, as it was the first half of the azure reptile’s esteemed species—Poké. The last three words were a little harder for the Pokémon to understand, but after a few minutes, Squirtle managed them.

“Poké…dex. Pokédex.” The tiny reptile said, smiling gleefully at how easily it was to pronounce the human language. It wouldn’t take him much longer to master the rest of it, but the thoughts of such a miniscule victory were shortsighted when Squirtle recalled the usage of the apparatus before him. A Pokédex was what the humans had been using for years to catalog the hatchling’s people as if they were nothing but mere animals. The mere thought of the device made the young revolutionary’s blood boil.

The decorative object embedded on the cover of the machine was a Pokéball. It was what the oppressive Homo sapiens used to trap Pokémon. Pushing his little fingers down into the crevice in the center of the apparatus, Squirtle wrenched the dreaded machine open. Beneath the cover, a screen and a slew of buttons were erected—their actual purpose completely unknown to the device’s current, unfamiliar user. Hopping onto the rows of buttons, Squirtle performed a rather erratic dance until he hit enough buttons to activate the machine.

After flashing for a while and spouting some verbal greetings in the human tongue, the Pokédex popped up the last entry that had been access—Number 007: Squirtle. The mere sight of his race documented like some type of cheap plant in a biology book made the Tiny Turtle want to desperately harm something of the human orientation. Before his malignant thoughts could come to any fruition, the Pokémon was startled by the sound of a branch snapping behind him.

Turning sharply, Squirtle saw the goliath-sized human and reacted swiftly. Releasing as potent a deluge from his maw as he could, the cyan reptile managed to divert the projectile before it managed to strike him. The look of surprise on the human attacker’s face was almost equal to the amount of rage displayed on Squirtle’s countenance. The Water Pokémon watched with a frustration-induced twitch to his eye as the Pokéball rolled away—a few splashes of water still clinging to its metallic surface.

The cap wearing kid retreated a few steps from the rather diminutive turtle. His eyes had fallen to the device that he must have left as a means of bait, but when he went to move forward again to retrieve it, Squirtle retaliated. Bringing a massive amount of his internally-produced water into his mouth, the Tiny Turtle lunged forward like a caged animal—firing the fluid in the form of a translucent sphere. The bubble attack slammed into the lad’s eyes, eliciting a squeal of surprise and a subsequent and rather hasty retreat.

Grinning victoriously, the small reptile walked over to the device that had failed in its intended goal to enslave him. With a widening smile, he proceeded to kick it as far as his tiny legs could. As the Pokéball rolled down an incline, Squirtle walked over to the other apparatus the trainer had left behind, and he then proceeded to saturate it with water. The Tiny Turtle didn’t stop until tiny columns of smoke were drifting up from the Pokédex.

Although the victory would go unseen to the masses, the reptilian radical and fledgling Pokémon activist would never forget his first triumph over man. Leaving behind the ruined technology, Squirtle resumed his trek toward the large city he had seen on the horizon while traveling down river.

As the turtle began on his walk, his mind began to wander to more easily pass the time. Squirtle really didn’t know why he was born with so much knowledge. After all, most Pokémon tend to spend most of their lives attempting to rival cattle when it comes to intelligence, but for some reason, Squirtle had been born a cut above the rest. In fact, he was concrete in his opinion that he was probably already one of the smartest of his people to exist. Why else would he already have so much knowledge crammed into his diminutive, infantile body?

Setting aside the philosophical debate with himself for later, the azure reptile blasted a rather dense stream of water into the slow-moving creek. The liquid projectile slammed into a minnow and sent the tiny fish flying out of the water and onto the other side of the shore. With a primitive gleam in his eye, the Tiny Turtle lunged across the minute creek and pounced upon his flailing prey. Before the minnow had a chance to react, Squirtle stepped on its head and its brain ceased to function correctly.

Baring his rapidly developing teeth, the amphibious superstar tore into the distended body of the fish—easily tearing apart the frail gills and diving into the tender, underlying meat. In a matter of seconds, the famished Pokémon managed to reduce his snack from nothing but bones, a tail, and one horrendously smashed cranium. Smiling contently, the satisfied turtle ran on of his pudgy hands over his plastron and turned his attention to the direction he had been traveling.

Figuring that the small creek would probably lead toward the large city, Squirtle dove in without another moment of hesitation. The sensation that followed brought a smile to the young turtle’s face as he simply bobbed up and down in the cool, slow-moving waters. After the peaceful little moment of daydreaming, the reptilian insurgent kicked his tiny legs and darted forward. Although he was barely over a day old, Squirtle had swimming down pat—after all, it was his genetic forte.

Tucking in his arms, the newborn tried to work on his finesse, and soon enough, he was gliding through the water in a rather crocodilian fashion. With his nostrils sealed off to prevent the flow of liquids into them, Squirtle swam with only his big eyes poking above the surface of the water. The relative peace reigned over the tiny creek for about half a mile before humanity once again reared its hideous countenance. The Tiny Turtle first noticed the pudgy human, perched over the small river holding some type of weapon in his hands.

The brown piece of wood extended upwards, and from its tip, some type of almost invisible chord suspended down into the tranquil waters. The section that had been dipped into the stream terminated in some type of sick, hooked blade, and it was upon that blade, that Squirtle could see some type of annelid squirming in vain to escape. The worm’s efforts were of no use, because the Pokémon could easily see that the Homo sapiens had driven his small, hooked blade through the tiny, defenseless creature’s midsection.

Grimacing slightly at the sight of the dying animal, Squirtle realized that he had to avenge the comrade dying in front of him. Even if it wasn’t one of his people, the amphibious superstar knew that he had to stop the tyranny of man. Lunging up from the stream, the turtle unleashed a small deluge into the eyes of the lazy hominid. Gasping in shock, the overweight monstrosity toppled backwards, his weapon falling to the wayside as Squirtle pressed the attack.

As the man tried to make sense of the situation, the Tiny Turtle caught sight of a box of some sorts. Opened by its owner, the large container was filled to the brim with tools of torture. Frowning, the azure reptilian hopped up to the rim of the chest of horrors and tenderly picked up a rather gruesome too that was adorned with four barbed hooks. Before the man had even managed to sit up, the enraged Pokémon attacked—swinging the lethal ornament down as he leaped at the cretin’s face. The hooks drove into his eyes, eliciting a series of horrified screams.

Squirtle, however, was not the type to capitulate. Even as the primate started to bat at him, the amphibious revolutionary struck back vehemently. The stunned, agonized man’s attacks weren’t anywhere fast or strong enough to deter the Tiny Turtle from his bloodlust. With a rapid succession of blows, the Pokémon managed to rip away the thin layer of tissue that concealed the monster’s eyes. Although the tyrant’s strikes in Squirtle’s direction were losing some of their desperate ferocity, the azure reptile didn’t stop until he hooked the back of an eye and ripped it out.

The instant that the man’s right ocular nerve was severed, he instantly slumped back—his massive form colliding with the earth. Squirtle, standing on the man’s chest and still holding the torture instrument in his hands, looked at the bulging eye and frowned. Shooting a stream of water from his mouth, he sent the severed organ off the weapon and to the bare dirt. Just as he was about to get a move on, the Tiny Turtle felt the man’s chest rise faintly. The incredulous thought drove the reptilian insurgent to new levels of aggravation.

Walking up the man’s collapsed form; Squirtle drove the four-pronged device into the right side of the monstrosity’s neck, right below his ear. Grunting as he moved, the Tiny Turtle drug the stolen weapon across the length of the man’s neck and over to his left ear. Taking a step back, the amphibious revolutionary watched as small spouts and tiny rivulets of blood escaped the deep, fatal laceration.

The tyrant’s screams, which had come to an end following Squirtle’s ocular surgery, returned as frantic gurgles. The gurgling made the turtle laugh, because each one was accompanied by more and more blood, which spewed down onto the man’s chin. After another few seconds of fighting and straining, the vanquished beast fell still. Discarding the bloodied, manmade torture instrument, Squirtle glared hatefully at the fallen Homo sapiens. In all his spasms, his blood had managed to get onto the turtle’s body.

Spitting upon the primate for good measure, the Pokémon spun around and quickly dove back into the stream. His little recess was over, and it was due time that he continued his venture toward the city. It was there that he would hit humanity where it would hurt them the most—the centers of their overpopulated, pollution producing, shrines to commercialization and the destruction of Mother Nature.

***​

Squirtle popped his head above the water and eyed the scene downriver: Some type of massive, smog-emitting structure was dumping gallon upon gallon of liquid into the stream. It had been a mile or so since Squirtle's last interaction with life, and the amphibious superstar was already infuriated by what he saw. The Tiny Turtle, unaware of the exact origin of the orange, partially chunky fluid, quickly escaped to the shore before he got any closer. Shaking his tiny frame a few times to decrease the amount of water still clinging to his azure-colored flesh, the amphibious creature glared at the ominous structure.

A fortress of black steel and stone, the building was decorated with a multitude of skyward-facing pipes that spouted the foulest of thick, obsidian smoke. Squirtle immediately realized that he was gazing straight at one of humanity’s monuments to industrialism. The Pokémon quickly drew the correlation between the factory and the vast excess of orange liquid gushing from its bowels into the stream. Squirtle realized the humans were poisoning the ecosystem, and the dead, deformed fish were a dead giveaway.

The site of humanity’s poison corrupting the earth made the turtle’s blood seethe, and he knew immediately what had to be done. Even though the city was but a mere mile or so away, he knew he had to delay his visit in order to deal with the threat at hand. Sneaking across the dying grass near the shore of the defiled river, Squirtle made his way toward the towering, ebony fortress. Noticing that there were no guards on duty, the azure reptilian, capitalizing on his minute figure, slid through a tiny grate erected near the back door of the facility.

Once inside the horizontal shaft, the amphibious superstar sprinted at a rapid pace. He continued to run until he could hear the voices of human filth. Coming to a screeching halt, Squirtle noticed another vent to his immediate right. Through the tiny exit of the shaft, he could see the ankles of about two human beings. Knowing that attacking now would be suicide, the Tiny Turtle waited what seemed like an eternity. He couldn’t understand what exactly the men were saying, but he knew it had to be something malicious and insidious, because after all, they were Homo sapiens.

After an eon or two, one of the humans departed the chamber, and his ally returned to his post near an array of screens. Squirtle sneered as he slipped out through the grate and scaled a nearby desk. Eying what seemed to be a writing tool haphazardly placed within his reach, the Tiny Turtle swiftly moved over and scooped up the heavy tool. Firmly clenching the sleek, cool pen, the Pokémon leaped from the desk. His landing was silent, even though the pen made a muffled noise upon striking the ground.

Grinning maliciously, Squirtle unleashed a torrent of water from his entrails. He didn’t capitulate until a considerable pool had been conjured from his depths and splashed across the ground behind the man. Taking several steps back, the cyan amphibian uttered a high-pitched squeak. The diminutive scream was enough to elicit a yelp of surprise from the human, who abruptly spun around to try and locate the source of the sound. Taking a step forward, he slid in the puddle of water and took a dive forward.

Squirtle snarled as he raised the tip of the writing tool upward. The man’s eyes widened until plunging directly onto the elevated pen. The worker’s forehead stopped about a centimeter above the Tiny Turtle’s head, but the flow of blood from his gruesome wound splattered the revolutionary. Although the hominid fidgeted and squirmed, his life would end soon enough, but before he had the chance to alert the others, Squirtle brutally clawed into his throat and tore out his larynx. The factory worker, weakened but not dead, rolled onto his back and tried in vain to muster the strength to remove the utensil from his eye.

Capitalizing, the Tiny Turtle lunged onto the man’s neck and started to shoot off streams of water down the gaping hole in his trachea. After a few minutes of silent struggling, the solider of industrialism fell limp beneath the wrath of the diminutive, reptilian insurrectionist. Watching the last signs of life slip away from the primate, Squirtle turned his attention back to the control panel and screens that he had been watching. Another malignant thought manifested itself within the tiny warrior’s mind.

Squirtle, leaving behind the bloodied, damp corpse of the fallen factory worker, marched toward the chair beneath the control panels he had seen the man tinkering with early. The turtle figured that if he could cause the device to malfunction, he just might be able to halt the building’s operations. An even greater victory would come if he could cause some permanent damage to the building in the form of a machine failure or worse—an explosion.

With thoughts of carnage and mayhem on his mind, the Tiny Turtle scaled the large sitting apparatus. Once he reached its apex, he dove from its heights and managed to land smoothly near the bottom edge of the wide, expansive panel of switches, buttons, and lights. Although he didn’t know any of their actual purposes, Squirtle was confident he could over both that and his inability to understand the human speech in order to thwart their plans.

Turning his attention from the sea of plastic and glass implements, the amphibious revolutionary glanced up at all of the monitors built into the walls about the multiple control panels. He could see several small, monochromatic video feeds of other areas of the factory on the screens. Most of the images were of workers incessantly toiling away their lives in the mission of keeping the factory’s machinery running flawlessly. Despite an inborn loathing of the primates, Squirtle had to feel some pity for the drones of that species.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t save them from being purged once the azure lizard solidified power; however, their deaths would undoubtedly be short and painless. After all, they had spent their lives slowly dying on the inside—that was their torture. Unlike the pompous, self-absorbed bureaucracy that dominated the planet and reveled in slowly raping it of its beauty, they were just pathetic minions following orders.

Shaking the philosophical tangent from his mind before he got too into it, Squirtle turned his attention back to the task at hand. With a fury never before seen, the amphibious radical set out to completely dismantle the device to the best of his abilities. After about a moment or so, the apparatus started to spew sparks and smog as buttons began to break and meters began to go into the danger zone across the many panels.

Leaping from the smoke and spark-laden surface, Squirtle pivoted a few times and landed on the chair positioned near the apparatus. In the background, the Tiny Turtle could hear a rather strange voice relaying some type of repetitive message, but because the voice was in the human tongue, the Pokémon could not comprehend it. Ignoring the unnecessarily loud tone, the cyan reptile made his way out through the slightly ajar door.

He was en route to the room where he had seen all the work go down, and once he got there, he was going to watch the entire factory malfunction and possibly breakdown entirely. With a smile growing across his infantile visage, the turtle made his way down a metal hallway bathed in the red glow of emergency lights. The reptilian insurrectionist was able to evade the slew of workers who were scampering from room to room in a desperate attempt to locate the source of the calamity.

With a malicious glint in his eye, Squirtle entered through the open doorway of the only chamber marked with a large, caution placard. Steam was gushing down from a ceiling that was choked with copper pipes and random wires. Labored machines were clanking away in a desperate effort to hold themselves in one piece, and much to the chagrin of the turtle, a large assortment of workers was still diligently slaving away to keep the apparatuses from going critical.

Greatly annoyed by the display of valor by the human drone population, the Tiny Turtle moved forward to smite the disheartened, disheveled opposition. Unfortunately, the moment that Squirtle landed next to the largest of the machines, a cataclysm of the epic sort began to unfold. Screws began to pop from the metal frame of the storage device like bullets from a high-powered gun, and the same orange fluid the reptile had seen earlier began to spew from the diminutive holes.

The fatigued workers started to back away, but before either they or Squirtle could get to a safe distance, the apparatus exploded—unleashing a deluge of the orange fluid upon the group of Homo sapiens and the infant Pokémon. The tiny, amphibious superstar raised his small hands, violently shaking them toward the wave in the moments before it engulfed him…
 
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Hela

Level 9
Joined
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The Girls
Hela paused between pages as she turned her focus back to Azula. The young woman's body was either held in place by bandages or slumping from the dosage of morphine, but even though there was a haze to them, her eyes still had that familiar burn in them.

"You know, bedtime stories usually work best when you fall asleep during them," Hela 'cooed' as she leaned over, sneering, and gave the pillow a few good smacks to make it nice and fluffy for the teenager. If a few of her errant swats fell just a little too close to Azula's face, Hela was none the wiser.

"I take it you want the next chapter?" She asked. After pausing for a few moment, Hela gave a nod and turned the page. "This is the part with the alchemists. You know, like that military man you one hundred percent were going to stab in the back before fate did your job for you," Hela winked to the bed-bound princess. "It's okay -- a little secret among us ladies. I won't even tell the dog, because we know too much tea makes her jittery."

Azula, the lower half of her face loosely wrapped and her body numbed beyond what should have been any legal limits, grunted and slurred something in response.

Hela, as if hearing a funny joke, leaning forward and let out a haughty chuckle. "Oh, do tell, dearie," Hela remarked before giving the young girl's elevated knee a hearty squeeze and turning her focus back to the book.

"Now where were we, Princess?"

***​

Chapter 2: Resurrection

S
quirtle screamed out in rage, but his tiny cries were snuffed out when the wave of industrial waste crashed into his diminutive form. The Tiny Turtle was instantly swept up in the torrential deluge, carrying him all the way down to the other end of the warehouse-sized room. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts to fight against the current, the Pokémon was slammed into the side of yet another storage vat.

Even as blood was dripping from his mouth and nose in what heralded the signs of massive internal damage, the amphibious revolutionary managed to raise one small middle finger and put on his best smirk. The last thing the badass saw was another wave of orange fluid pouring down on him, and then Squirtle ceased to think.

The vile contents of the orange fluid triggered the machinery that lined the massive room to instantaneously malfunction. The massive apparatuses that had simply been malfunction now began to explode brilliantly. Cinders and shrapnel exploded out in rings around the dying devices—murdering any of the workers that had survived the initial flood of chemicals into the room. Now only a few, mortally wounded men were crawling around, wailing as their lives slowly drew to a close.

After a few minutes, the chaos subsided, and all that was left was a bleak, dismal scene of destruction and blood. The sea of florescent lights that had once adorned the ceiling of the warehouse-sized room had been shattered in the explosion. The few light fixtures that remained intact were the only thing that separated the room from complete and total darkness, and even their combined luminescence failed help the ailing survivors find their way.

Amidst the sea of flames and spontaneous sparks of electricity, a few columns of light were visible—due in part to holes blown into the side of the factory. From outside the ruined room, the sounds of gunfire and further explosions could be heard, and it soon became evident that the entire structure had fallen under attack following Squirtle’s tampering with its internal systems. Tanks rolled passed the razed castle of industrialism, a series of foot soldiers following in its wake.

As the rest of the factory slowly caved into the river it had been dumping its radioactive waste into, one section managed to remain standing despite the damage to its foundation and structural integrity; however, the building would remain desolate and lifeless for quite some time before anything vaguely resembling life stirred from within its crumbling carcass. In the forgotten, ignorant view of the public eye, something horrible and blasphemous was coming into existence.

Slain workers stirred from their watery grave and pulled themselves from the remnant of the factory. Although their bodies were bloodied and battered, their minds had somehow regenerated to the point where they regained the most basic of needs—the need to feed. For weeks, the zombies slowly rose from the sight of the bombing and radioactive spill, and even as their numbers infiltrated the public, attention was diverted elsewhere. New, radical factions were coming into power across the globe.

Even as “The Truth” spread across the globe like wildfire, more important history was playing out elsewhere. Nearly two months after the disaster at the factory—one of the Truth’s earliest attacks, something brand new stirred within the radioactive, stagnated waters. The corpse had been thrown into the river weeks ago when what was left of the building was torn down for scrap metal, and even as the rest of the bodies rose from the grave, this particular cadaver remained idle.

None questioned why it wasn’t affected by decay or decomposition, and the local children were even ballsy enough to one day fish it out from the bottom of the polluted river. The group of three lads dragged the body from its watery grave and ridiculed the bizarre, unspoiled stiff for quite some time. Even when a storm started to brew, they ignored the shouts of their parents and had their fun. They would throw the corpse, see if they could skip it across the river, and even use it as a puppet for their own breed of twisted humor.

Unfortunately, when the fun finally ran out due to the arrival of a torrential downpour, one of the boys was stupid enough to drive a nearby rod of metal into the heart of the deceased creature. With their laughter rejuvenated, they turned to flee the seen of their defiling of the dead; however, one bolt of lightning would change all of that in a heartbeat. Exploding downward in an awesome flash of white, the bolt of lightening slammed straight into the long, metal pike and sent 1.21 gigawatts of electricity straight into the cadaver.

Almost instantly, the creature’s eyes shot open to reveal two angry, red eyes. His fingers twitched and a low moan escaped his maw as the lightning numbed. Three very scared children let out horrified screams and fled the area when they saw the animated corpse remove the pike from his chest. Sitting upright, the formerly dead beast poked at relatively shallow wound and fathomed how its existence was no ending his. Nevertheless, the resurrected monster released an angry howl as the rain continued to pour from the heavens.

“Squirrrrrrrrtle!” The lizard screamed, recalling what had led to his apparent demise and subsequent return. Had it been the radioactive waste that spared his life somehow? Had fate directed those children and lightning bolt to him? Squirtle brushed aside the questions, because he felt too strong and powerful to let them get to him now. In fact, he felt mentally and physically superior now then he had several months ago. Flexing his developed digits, he let out a deep breath of air.

“Monster!” One of the boys had stayed behind simply to ridicule the Tiny Turtle, but when Squirtle noticed him hiding behind some bushes, he simply began to laugh.

“Compared to me, all other monsters you have seen are little fairies and could double as my personal bitches. Now fuck off before I rid the planet of you, Homo!” The words were enough to cause the cretin to flee, but the reptilian revolutionary was the one who was truly surprised. Not questioning his newfound lingual skills, the Pokémon broke into a sprint—his developed legs carrying him faster and easier than ever before.

***​

What is this feeling of power and drive?” Squirtle screamed melodically as he stampeded up a mountain trail a few hours after his return from the grave—an expression of unadulterated madness and glee plastered across his reptilian features. “I’ve never known! I feel alive!” The Tiny Turtle continued his loud combination of violent screaming and singing as he strolled up to a small group of young kids sitting near a laid out picnic buffet enjoying a feast under the stars. Gallivanting toward on of the unperceiving youths, Squirtle wrapped his dexterous arms around the human’s neck and snapped it like a twig.

Where does this feeling of power derive? Making me know, why I’m alive!” The turtle sang, shoving his victim’s face into a bowl of potato salad as his friends tried to flee. With a glint in his eye, Squirtle pounced at one of the retreating preteens and tore out throat when he turned to face his amphibious attacker. Turning sharply, the Pokémon blasted a concentrated stream of water at the final hominid. The youthful girl tripped and landed on her back, but by the time she realized what was going on, the frenzied Tiny Turtle had already lunged on her and tore out her heart.

Like the night, it's a secret, sinister dark and unknown!” The azure reptile hissed into the dark skyline. “I do not know what I seek. Yet, I'll seek it alone!” Casting aside the ruined organ, Squirtle began to tear into the deceased girl’s thoracic cavity like a buzzard tearing into fresh carrion. Once the turtle was satisfied with his defilement of the cadaver, he spied a group of teens nearby sharing an intimate moment in a car—oblivious the massacre just a few dozen feet away. Even as the Pokémon crept toward his victims, he was oblivious to the soldiers stalking him.

I have a thirst that I cannot deprive!” The reptilian revolutionary bellowed as he exploded through the window and ripped apart the inhabitants before they could even remove their tongues from one another’s mouth. “Never have I…felt so alive!” The bloodshed brought a smile back to Squirtle’s blue countenance; however, the moment of elation was cut short when the hail of gunfire interrupted the glee of the Pokémon.

There is no battle I couldn't survive!” Squirtle roared as he punched through the roof of the vehicle. Firing off a few rounds of water, the turtle dove forward and attacked with an inhuman strength and speed. “Feeling like this…” The blue-skinned powerhouse screamed into the night as he snapped the neck of his third and final attacker. “Feeling alive!” With his foes dispatched, a bloodied Squirtle climbed his way to the edge of the cliff. Below both him and the rays of the moon, he could see a city wrought by chaos.

Like the moon, an enigma…lost and alone in the night!” The turtle declared, raising his bloodstained hands toward the white globe in the starry, night sky. “Lost and alone in the night! Damned by some heavenly stigma but blazing with light!” The turtle’s intense singing resonated into the valley beneath him as the city was torn apart by the fighting that was spreading across the planet. Squirtle didn’t really know what had gotten hold of him, but he wasn’t one to stop the energized hatred flowing within his veins. Stepping over to the edge of the mountainside, the Tiny Turtle wiped the blood on his hands across his face.

It's the feeling of being alive! Filled with evil but truly alive!” Squirtle was foaming at the mouth as he raced down the oddly angled slope in a haphazard dash at the cityscape before him. “It's the truth that cannot be denied!” By the time he had finished the line, the Pokémon’s augmented speed had carried him to the outskirts of the war-ravaged city. Leaping forward, he landed on the roof of a charred bus.

It's the feeling of being alive!” The Tiny Turtle roared—his voice peaking as he dragged the note on until it vanished into the night sky. Satisfied with both his homicidal and singing skills, the Pokémon set out to examine the city. He didn’t know what was ravaging his homeworld and future dominion, but he was going to kill and maim everything that stood in his way.

“Nice display,” the sound drew the reptile’s attention and revealed the presence of a grizzly, old creature who was watching him from the shadows.

“State your name and maybe I won’t kill you,” Squirtle chuckled malignantly. The mangy human stepped out from the shadows, and at that moment, the turtle recognized it as just another foolish Homo sapiens.

“I am Steve, and I know who you are, Squirtle. Furthermore, I know that you are special among your species. I come to you as a representative of the Truth—we are trying to establish a dominate body and shape the Earth toward a new future. I implore you to he—” The man never got to finish, because his body was torn apart by the bullet stream from a machinegun that the Tiny Turtle had found nearby. As the man collapsed in a pool of his blood, Squirtle snickered and raised his eyes to the moon.

“This is my planet, and I'll make my own side…bitch.” The Turtle said, making his way into the depths of the city ravaged by war.

***​

A few hours later, Squirtle let out a heavy sigh as he scaled the clock tower near the central portion of the city. He didn’t really know exactly where he had wound up, or even where he had been in the past due to his lack of knowledge of geography. Nevertheless, he had garnered that he was in some type of larger city that held some relative importance on a grander scheme. The cityscape was filled with older, gothic-influenced buildings that heralded the rich past from which the city had grown.

The tower that the Tiny Turtle was scaling seemed moderately undamaged despite the destruction of the structure from which it was erected alongside. Squirtle had only gathered that the bombed building bore the name Westminster, and aside from that, the Water Pokémon was completely baffled as the scene playing out around him. All he knew was that he had to escape the gunfire and chaos in the streets if he expected to survive the bloodshed that was spreading through the metropolis like wildfire.

As he neared the summit of the tower, Squirtle glanced out a hole in the wall and saw what remained of the other tower near the other end of the once glorious palace. Didn’t the peasants call it Victoria when it was torn apart by an air-to-ground missile right after the reptilian revolutionary crossed that rickety bridge? Thinking back, Squirtle was starting to deduce that climbing on of the few standing buildings in the block may have no been the brightest of ideas, but who would feel compelled to bomb a simple tower with a bunch of clocks on it?

Shrugging of such melancholy thoughts, the turtle sprinted up the few remaining flights of stairs until he reached the apex of the structure. An opened room dominated by a central bell, Squirtle tilted his head and started toward the massive device. Unfortunately, he was cut off by a rather large, obsidian fist and sent into the far wall of the room.

“What the hell was that?” The amphibious superstar declared in his ironically childish dialect. “Fucking felt I got hit by a truck,” he added, rubbing the side of his head as he climbed off his cloaca and shook his head a little bit to eradicate the dizziness he was feeling. Glancing around the dimly light room, Squirtle squinted in an effort to locate the force that had struck him, but it wasn’t until his attacker made himself present with another assault that the turtle verified his location.

Feeling the creaking of the floorboards long before the punch was thrown; the Tiny Turtle pivoted sideways and grabbed the giant fist about an inch or so in front of his blue-skinned face. Squirtle was taken aback by the monstrous appearance of his attacker—the beast’s flesh seemed to literally be breathing and churning around as if it was its own separate entity.

The two immense, erratic pools of white tissue that comprised the beast’s eyes narrowed as its long tongue shot out of its opened mouth and across the plethora of jagged canines that lined its mouth. Grimacing as a few beads of sweat formed atop his bald head, Squirtle shoved the bizarre beast backwards and fired off a condensed sphere of water into his chiseled chest. The projectile sent the monster staggering, but it quickly became clear to the turtle that he was going to have to fight harder to dispatch the mutant.

Kicking off his feet, the Pokémon launched himself toward the sternum of the creature, but in an act of sheer ability, the creature caught the blue missile and redirected Squirtle into a rendezvous with the massive bell near the center of the chamber. With a resonating thud, the child-sized turtle slammed into the side of the copper bell and let out an angered, pained shriek as he slid off the side of the now mobile object.

Although his vision was blurred from what was possibly an epic concussion, the reptilian warrior retained enough consciousness to watch as the massive, onyx beast began toward him, but in what seemed like an act of pure luck, the creature began to lament. Monstrous, labored screams escaped its maw as it crumbled to the ground and put its gnarled, clawed fingers to the sides of its cranium. Squirtle, regaining his bearing, realized that clanging of the bell seemed to cause the beast pain, and it must have been in the tower seeking to destroy the device.

Flipping off his back and onto his stout legs, the Pokémon watched as the creature suddenly lashed out—violently swinging at the giant bell in an effort to make it stop from clanging. Smiling widely, Squirtle sucked in a deep lungful of air and released it in the form of a piercing, high-decibel screech. The monster, punching the bell completely off its supports, let out another scream and crumbled to the floor.

Unrelenting in his onslaught, the Tiny Turtle watched as the creature began to convulse and twitch, and then its flesh began to slide off to reveal a naked, scrawny man beneath the suit of living tissue. Slipping through cracks in the aged, wooden floor, the ebony fluid quickly vanished in an effort to escape the wrath of Squirtle’s Water Pulse. Exhaling on final time, the reptilian revolutionary watched as the man let out groan and began to regain consciousness.

“So who the hell are you?” Squirtle nonchalantly declared, glaring at the pale hominid as he struggled to his feet. The Homo sapiens had but one possession on his nude body—an ornate, silver ring that seemed melded to his right index finger.

“I’m Glen, and please, I didn’t have any control of myself when the Truth unleashed that thing on me. Don’t kill me and I’ll help you in whatever cause you serve, and I can be of use I promise!” The frail man pleaded as his weary eyes widen with fear as he awaited the reply of the blue-skinned creature.

“I hate your kind,” Squirtle replied heartless. “But what does that ring do?” The man, although originally intimidated by the first statement, let out a sigh of relief as he raised his finger into the turtle’s direct line of sight.

“I stole it from one of the Truth’s labs, but an explosion accidentally melded it permanently to my skin. The ring was part of their more recent experiments pertaining to controlling the dead and the forces of darkness. When they couldn’t kill me for fear of losing the only existing ring, they used me as a test for their symbiote line of testing. The rest is an adrenaline-based blur, but please, I don’t care who you fight for or where you allegiances lie! I just don’t want to die, and I swear I can be off assistance!”

Before Glen had a chance to continue his frantic rambling, a missile slammed into the side of the building and destroyed the Clock Tower in a brilliant display of fire and debris. Squirtle’s eyes bugged out as he desperately tried to fathom what to do, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder. A dark, uplifting sensation overwhelmed the amphibious insurrectionist, but before he could get a hold of the situation, the human and he were back on the ground near the remains of the tower.

A black, churning barrier had engulfed the two and offered them safe transport from the blast, and when the hand left Squirtle’s shoulder, the barrier soon faded from existence. The Pokémon chuckled slightly as he turned his attention back to the hominid and shrugged his shoulders.

“Get some clothes,” the reptile said, pointing to a nearby corpse. “We need to get out of here and to a safer location,” Glen nodded as he started to undress on of the corpses. Squirtle walked over to a more battered corpse and tore a few strands of cloth from the cadaver. Wrapping some cloth around his elbows and knees for protection, the revolutionary stabbed two holes in a final stripe and tied it around his cranium.

After tying the knot, he let the remainder of the cloth fall onto his neck and shoulders and adjusted the mask so he could see through the holes. Turning around, he smirked at his clothed travel companion and then to the corpses that surrounded the horrendously unlikely pairing. Glen extended his hand and closed his eyes as a black aura slowly materialized around his stretched digits. Squirtle watched as the corpses all around him suddenly began to twitch and release eerie groans into the evening sky as they simultaneously crawled off the ground and up to standing positions.

“Bitchin’,” The Tiny Turtle said—it was all that really needed to be said. With his mind made up about his new henchman, Squirtle set out to survey the city for some assholes to murder. Unfortunately for the Pokémon, his peace and silence was once again shattered by the sudden arrival of some fag clad in red. The imbecile swooped in, executed some fancy maneuvers, and immediately established himself as a complete and utter fucktard. Despite his blaring homosexuality, something about the newcomer seemed to scream ‘awesomeness.’

“Neat,” the man spoke—his voice causing the turtle to shudder. It was going to be a long day for Squirtle.

The moment pervaded until it became an awkward silence, and then the mage's potential for further egotism was quickly and rudely interrupted by something that the trio found to be anything close to ‘neat.’ After all, a twenty-foot tsunami most certainly conveys nothing relatively close to even relatively okay. The word that had just formulated in the minds of the three travelers was closer to a definitive ‘fuck.’

Fortunately for the triumvirate, the massive wave of water did not continue its crushing course towards them. Instead of decimating them completely and utterly, the wave came to a sudden halt just before obliterating the small group. A small portion of the huge tidal wave suddenly split apart, and a man wearing a blue military uniform step forward from the churning, translucent depths.

"Major Andrews, Hydro Alchemist, Truthbearer for the Truth organization…You three have been identified as anarchists, and a threat to the stability to this world. If you are not what we have observed you to be, speak now to defend yourself, or else you must be purged." the ex-Hydro Alchemist announced, his face slack and seemingly uncaring, his words almost distant and impersonal. Squirtle didn’t really know how to respond to the appearance of the robed man but staring at the military fruit in front of him, he knew exactly what to say.

“My name is Squirtle!” The Tiny Turtle roared—kicking off the ground and executing a flawless, backwards flip onto a nearby mailbox. With angry, hateful eyes, he pointed an accusatory finger at the human before him. “You speak of threatening the stability of this planet? Why don’t you go munch on some rod you hypocritical fuck? With the exception of that idiot associate of mine, all of you Homo sapiens are all alike. You gallivant around in your little uniforms with your medals and honors, but you’re no different from the people you murder, rape, and enslave in your pathetic crusade to prove who has the biggest penis.

“You all fucking disgust me and make me want to slit my wrists like those damn little goth kids I see whining about how horrible their lives are sitting at the apex of the food chain. I swear by the harvest moon looming above us that I will not capitulate until I purge the planet of you greedy, destructive, self-centered hominids,” foaming a little bit at the mouth, the reptilian warrior shifted his fingers so that only the central digit was facing the self-proclaimed ‘Truthbearer.’

“That means we’re the anarchists,” Red Mage stated rather nonchalantly, joining the perched turtle and joining Squirtle in saluting the Alchemist in a manner so awesome only they could pull it off without a hitch. The display elicited a chuckle from Major Andrews and his approval in the form of a generous applause.

“I figured I’d be dispatched to deal with a bunch of clowns, but I will nevertheless enjoy slaying all of you with the utmost prejudice,” the alchemist said without so much as a hint of emotion whatsoever as he took a step in their immediate direction.

“Die commie bastard!” The puberty-afflicted voice resonated throughout the night sky as its adolescent origin threw forth his hand—signifying his previously hidden troops to pounce upon the Truthbearer with an animalistic vigor. Major Andrews’ eyes swelled with a mixture of panic and surprise as the horde of slain peasants and civilians descended upon him like an unrestrained flood of death and decay.

As Squirtle, Red Mage, and Glen enjoyably looked on, the ‘Hydro Alchemist’ vanished beneath the horde; however, the victory was never quite that easy. With a valiant scream, the Truth henchman unleashed his powers in the form of a massive explosion of hydrogen dioxide. The sheer force tore apart a large portion of the shambling undead that had amassed upon the warrior.

The fluid shrapnel that resulted from the blast maintained enough power to send Red Mage and Glen to the street, but the Tiny Turtle was unfazed by the watery assault. After all, he himself not only held mastery over water, but Squirtle was naturally resistance against attacks that derived their potency from said liquid and its numerous manifestations.

“I have no idea what the hell you anarchists did to achieve that little trick, but it will take a lot more than some revived corpses in order to defeat one of the four Truthbearers,” the alchemist stated dispassionately as a smug, confident grin spread across his otherwise strangely vacuous visage. The amphibious revolutionary chuckled beneath his breath as he leaped down from the mailbox he had been perched on for the last few minutes.

Major Andrews extended his right hand and grasped a piece of jewelry with his free hand. Slowly but surely, a cloud of steam manifested itself around the man’s fingers and palm. Soon enough, the Truthbearer finished concocting a dense, large globule of water around his hand. Taking a step toward his adversary, Squirtle took a long, deep breath of air into his reptilian lungs and smiled through clenched lips.

Drawing his palms back toward his body, the Hydro Alchemist’s eyes, as blank and lifeless as the reinvigorated corpses he had dispatch earlier, seemed weary as the hominid threw his hands forward and unleashed the concentration of fluid borne of alchemic origins. With a glint in his red and black eyes, the Water Pokémon threw his head forward and unleashed a massive discharge of water from his entrails.

With a wet, titanic slap, the two projectiles collided with one another and exploded simultaneously. The impact split the concrete beneath the collision site and sent both combatants straight to their derrières. The union and subsequent destruction of the attacks resonated into the night sky, and the fragmented particles quickly made their way back down to the desolate street in the form of diminutive droplets.

“Fuck,” the words escaped the Tiny Turtle’s lips laced with enough sarcasm to strike down an ox, but the realization that the fight was going to be nothing short of awesome would remain far after the last traces of comedic revelry faded from everyone’s mind. Unfortunately for the two warriors, their little tryst was about to be invaded.

“You know… this darkens the color a tad. Makes it a bit redder,” Squirtle cringed at the sound of the man’s voice, and even so, Major Andrews and his reptilian foe turned to face the mage. “It really takes away from this vermillion thing. It might be bad for getaways, but it’s good for style.” he said, sighing. “Hopefully this won’t shrink too much; otherwise, I might have to do something about it. Anyway, where was I?” the fag spoke, placing on of his fingers upon his pale chin. “That’s right…I have to kick your ass.”

Just as the group had finished its badgering of their foe, a deluge of water sent Red Mage, Squirtle, and Glen sailing through the air and into the side of a nearby structure. Exploding through a randomly placed window, the robed mage and nerdy, English chap vanished from site as the Tiny Turtle was left to slide down from his initial point of impact on the wall of the building.

Pushing away from the ruptured concrete, Squirtle bounced back up to a standing position and glared distastefully at the alchemist a few yards away. Without a moment’s hesitation, the opponents kicked away from the street and lunged at one another. Coming together with enough force to further splinter the dense concrete beneath their feet, the two warriors locked hands and entered into a contest of brute strength.

Unfortunately for Major Andrews, the Tiny Turtle proved to have a steady advantage when it came to sheer power, and with a final thrust, the Pokémon sent the evolved primate stumbling backwards. Despite failing to assert his physical prowess, the Hydro Alchemist remained resolute in his cold, emotionless state of existence. His blank eyes twitched slightly, but aside from that, the loss was met with no adverse reaction that Squirtle could detect.

Grasping the necklace that seemed to be the nexus of his alchemic powers, the Truthbearer extended his unoccupied hand and once again began to transmute the air into a substance he could further manipulate with his hydrokinetic powers. The amphibious superstar watched with an intrigued eye as Major Andrews attempted to conjure what appeared to be a tornado of water.

“Ice 1!” The words were complemented by a deluge of frozen, snowy wind that erupted from the extended palms of Red Mage as he lunged through the window from whence he had been thrown through. As Squirtle watched on, the cyclone of fluid quickly began to freeze around the Hydro Alchemist. Unfortunately, the awesomeness of the vermilion-cloaked mage was unprepared to have his trademark trait put to the true test.

As the turtle and sorcerer looked on, the solidified tornado suddenly began to buckle and collapse inward onto the man situated at its eye. The kid-sized Pokémon tilted his head in awe of the events unfolding merely a few dozen feet away from him; however, the two-dimensional entity next to him seemed a bit more aggravated and perturbed than his reptilian cohort.

Like the peel of a banana, the frozen cyclone fell away to reveal the fruit that lie within it—Major Andrews, but it seemed that he had done something radical in order to gain what he may potentially view as an advantage. With his alchemic ability to manipulate compounds at a cellular level, the Truthbearer had augmented his physical build by literally deep freezing his entire body.

“Impressive display of power,” Squirtle said, flashing a toothy grin in the hydromancer’s direction. “Unfortunately, I’m still going to own you, and then fuck your mother while you watch and cry like the little bitch that you are,” still wholly unaffected by the verbal bantering and slander from the amphibious superstar, the minion of the Truth began to advance towards the rather unlikely duo. The sound of his solidified feet crunching and impacting the fissured concrete streets resonated throughout the dead, empty street as Major Andrew’s advanced toward his intended victims.

Squirtle glared into the glazed eyes of the man with an immense hatred, yet even the rage-fueled reptilian could sense that the foe he was combating seemed empty. Even when his eyes weren’t coated by frost, the Pokémon could see the blank despair that emanated outward. It seemed that Major Andrew’s, like many pumpkins before him come October, had been gutted for the purpose of someone else’s amusement.

Staring at the frozen shell of a man, Squirtle shrugged his little shoulders and giggled at yet another scathing example of how corrupt and fraudulent the Homo sapiens behaved. It would bring the turtle much joy to not only flay Major Andrew’s alive, but also to liberate him from the treachery of his own kind had inflicted upon him.

Extending a hand, the ice-encased alchemist narrowed his lifeless eyes and began to convulse as a massive, frozen barb began to form around the icy gauntlets that was his right hand. The pointed, glacial mass reflected the light of the full moon, but Squirtle wasn’t easily intimidated by neat little tricks. After all, he was the king of neat little tricks—who else gets resurrected by a bolt of lightning?

“It’s time we own this bitch,” the Pokémon stated nonchalantly. “Red Mage, go make sure Glen is still alive and stuff. For now, this Douchebearer is mine!” After issuing the command, the Tiny Turtle narrowed his own eyes and charged the ice-consumed alchemist, releasing a frenzied battle cry into the night sky along the way.

The icy form of the ex-Hydro Alchemist whipped an arm forward, sending out a blast of subzero vapors, causing even the air itself to crystallize. The Pokémon dodged gush of wind by rolling sideways on his shell and quickly returned fire with a jet of compacted water from his mouth.

A blue glow emanated from the necklace that the alchemist wore around his neck, and the condensed stream of water began to slow its advancement, before coming to a stop in midair. Utilizing his alchemic powers, the seemingly lifeless Andrews further warped the condensed liquid, formed it into a spear of water, and then proceeded to launch it back at its creator.

After deflecting yet another shot of water, the frozen-over body of Major Andrews began to rapidly thaw, until he was back to looking like his old, lifeless self once more. The expression upon his face seemed to convey the notion that someone had just contacted him through a medium beyond the turtle’s comprehension. Grasping his necklace firmly with both hands, he opened his mouth to announce what had transpired in his mind to the azure reptile.

"It would seem that Time is on your side, little turtle. Fate has decided you shall live a while longer. I bid you farewell." the alchemist stated, with words that ordinarily would have sounded mocking, if not for the lifeless echo behind them. With that adieu, a blast of steam erupted out around Major Andrew's form. The mist veiled his body in a matter of seconds, and when the vapor cleared, the man was gone.
 
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Hela

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The Girls
Hela scowled at the sight of Azula, who seemed to be... asleep?

Leaning forward, the Goddess of Death thwapped the teenager in the knee with the heavy book, causing Azula's eyes to snap open and a gurgled string of muffled noises to try and issue forth through her bandages.

"You fell asleep?" Hela scoffed. "That's when they get you, y'know. Moment of weakness," she added with a heavy frown, completely ignoring the fact that the princess was almost entirely encased in a body cast.

She couldn't speak and her system was pumped full of morphine, but Azula's manic eyes conveyed about a dozen different feelings. Hela, after patting the girl on her sweaty brow, turned back to the book. "Let's see... this next section is more stupid, but I'm told it picks up again afterwards. You'll at least be happy to know that there's more dead alchemists here, and I'm fairly certain there's radioactive reptiles involved at some point."

***​

Chapter 3: "Atomic" Interruption

H
ours had begun to drag for the turtle as he fought to stay sane among the mage’s idiocy. After a while, it became increasingly apparent that Red Mage was an anomaly who existed merely to add paradoxes and plot holes to storylines. Even worse, he seemed to be an endless supply of wacky, inane humor. There was nothing more aggravating or someone as perpetually pissed off as Wartortle than wacky, inane humor. For the love of all things holy, the man was two-dimensional! With a final, desperate notion to regain his sanity, the turtle fought to escape the madness.

“Fuck all of you,” Squirtle declared, flashing two tiny middle digits toward the members of his traveling party. “Fucking Homo sapiens! I’ve had enough of this inane revelry and ridiculous banter. Screw you guys…I’m leaving,” with a glint in his eyes, the Tiny Turtle turned his back to his former allies and sauntered off like the little bastard that he truly was.

Scampering up the side of a nearby structure, the water Pokémon didn’t stop climbing until he was perched atop a marble gargoyle a few dozen feet above the ravaged streets of Central City. From his demonic perch, the child-sized reptile could see several concentrations of soldiers from both sides of the war. The Truth—the force meaning to purge the planet but was secretly just a bunch of spineless imbeciles hiding behind pretty words—was positioned near the outskirts of the city, and their opposition seemed to have amassed within key defensive posts both inside and on the edge of Central City.

It soon became very evident that the lines were being drawn and that the final conflict was looming on the horizon. Despite the pathetic, attention-craving cohorts and all the shenanigans he had been inadvertently dragged into, Squirtle could now take the time to analyze the situation for what it was worth. This city he had been taken to was quickly going to descend into the same chaos that had overwhelmed the large city across the sea.

“It’s going to get pretty shitty down there, mate,” the accent triggered the amphibious warrior to pivot sharply and raise his tiny fists in preparation for whatever had snuck up on him. Unfortunately, it was only the necromancer Glen, who had been missing for quite some time. The hominid waved a hand at the azure creature and sprinted up to the edge of the building.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Squirtle asked with a tone that was more curious than aggravated. The nerd simply emitted a series of nasally laughs and shrugged his shoulders.

“I stowed away on one of the jets and have been tailing you guys since you landed here to make sure that nothing gets too out of hand, but it seems that you managed to handle yourself well,” the sarcasm was blatantly apparent, but the reptile found the human too pathetic and useful to butcher.

“For now we bide our time and wait to see how the events unfold,” Squirtle said with a smirk on his face. “We’ll make our move when the battle erupts, but until then, it’d be best if we laid back and watch the anticipation swell. Sooner or later on of the sides will make a move, and at that moment, we will swoop in and claim some ears for ourselves.”

“I like that idea,” Glen said with an obnoxious glee to his voice. Squirtle scoffed and vanished inside the structure. The Tiny Turtle wore a smile on his face, because he knew it wouldn’t be long before the violence began. When the bloodbath began, the Pokémon knew he would start enjoying himself.

***​

Squirtle had only really been sleeping for a few hours whenever the first sounds of gunfire and explosion shook him from his relatively peaceful slumber. Sitting up on an impulse, the Tiny Turtle eyed a nearby gun and collected it without a moment’s hesitation. With a smile, he checked to ensure that the combination of M16 and M203 was loaded and in operating order.

“What the hell was that?” The nasally voice was that of Glen—who had just immerged from the chamber in which he had been resting for the coming battle. Squirtle, laying down the weapon so that he could tighten the bands tied comfortably around his joints and face, looked up momentarily to grin at his unorthodox travel companion. The hominid was rubbing his eyes and seemed to be still tired.

“The fighting has started, human,” the Water Pokémon stated nonchalantly as he retrieved his weapon from the floor and turned his attention to the doorway that led back to his roof lookout. “Take the stairs and exit this building through the back alley. We will rendezvous near the old park to the southwest of our current location. From there we will devise a means of attack.”

“Where are you headed?” Glen inquired, shaking the last lingering vestiges of sleep from his mind.

“I’m going to remain here and watch to see the troop movements on both sides, and then I’ll take the safest route to meet up with you. Stop asking questions and hustle!” Realizing that failure to comply would result in his gruesome termination; Glen gave the turtle a mock salute and darted out of the room and toward the stairwell. With a smug smile on his face, Squirtle brushed some dust and grim that had clung to his smooth, azure flesh.

Gallivanting out the nearby door, the reptilian warrior made his way toward the stone barricade and hopped up onto it. Glancing down at the war-torn street, the Tiny Turtle was startled to see a rather small group of soldiers parading down the road. Tilting his firearm so that he could peer down through the crosshairs, Squirtle opened his mouth in an epic declaration.

“Hey assholes!” The turtle roared with an overwhelmingly bad Cuban accent. “Say hello to my little friend!” With the simple motion of pulling the trigger, the azure Pokémon fired a forty-millimeter grenade round that spelled death and destruction on the small group of unprepared soldiers. The screams that ensued prior to the blast were soon snuffed out as the entire road was consumed in a swirl of dust and shrapnel.

For a beat or two, the amphibious superstar merely watched as the cloud slowly settled, but then he quickly noticed that the round had been ineffective at completely eliminating the unaware group of grunts. A single man was alive and standing in the center of the mass of dismembered corpses and bodily fluids. A giant of a human, the soldier didn’t seem to be a warrior at all.

Despite being several stories above the ground, Squirtle was nevertheless able to note the bizarre outfit that the man was clad in: straw-hat, sandals, denim shorts, and an unbuttoned, vividly red vest. In essence, the ‘soldier’ seemed like he had been snatched right off a Hawaiian beach and thrown onto the frontline. The most ridiculous part about the man was his physical construction—he was easily far taller than seven feet and probably no more than a buck twenty-five.

Turning his attention to the rooftop high above his head, the apparent country bumpkin glared coldly at his assailant with two black eyes. Then—in a display that startled Squirtle to no end—the man whipped his arms upward, and with a sound reminiscent of a stretched rubber band being released, the appendages shot up toward the Tiny Turtle. Falling against the stone ledge at the edge of the roof, the Homo sapiens fingers tightened around the surface, and out of sheer instinct, Squirtle leaped back.

A moment later, the man’s extended limbs retracted, generating enough momentum to swing the soldier all the way to the roof and even then some. The Water Pokémon watched as the lanky figure landed in a crouched position on the ground a few feet away from him. After a momentary, dramatic pause, the man stood up and fixed his straw-hat and cracked his knuckles.

“You have not only slain numerous members of the Truth’s military but have been openly aggressive against an officer of said organization. You can either surrender now, or you will be slain by me—Luffy. Decide now!” Luffy roared as his eyes flared with an immense rage, and with a final motion, he threw an accusatory finger in the direction of the child-sized turtle.

It took Squirtle all of ten seconds to decide…

“Fuck you,” the Tiny Turtle declared, pulling the trigger, and releasing a stream of bullets upon Luffy. The obnoxious tall, lean man kicked off his feet and lunged sideways in an erratic attempt to dodge the deadly projectiles. After a moment or two of making his foe dance around the roof like a clown, Squirtle tossed the gun to the wayside and chuckled. “Let’s do this!” He roared barbarically as he lunged toward his elastic adversary.

The first punch staggered the hominid, but unfortunately for the reptilian superstar, he was fighting someone who actually had some degree of battle finesse. Albeit a rather sloppy evasion, Luffy nevertheless managed to slip out of the turtle’s warpath; however, Squirtle’s superior speed permitted him to quickly spin around and decimate the slower warrior with a chop to the knees.

As Luffy stumbled and eventually fell to one knee, his opponent leaped into the air—coming down with enough force to send both him and the elastic hominid crashing through the crumbling roof and into the building below. Moving away from Luffy as the two free fell, Squirtle shot a short burst of energy at the ground beneath him and managed to stall his momentum long enough to permit him a safe, soft landing. A few feet away, Luffy’s legs expanded downward until they touched down on the floor and halted the descent of the rest of the body.

With smirks on both of their faces, the two combatants brushed the dust and fragments of wood and stone from their forms and prepared their next moves—the battle was underway.

The Tiny Turtle gawked at the silly, elastic hominid as he pondered his next move. From what he had witnessed, Luffy derived the majority of his powers and offensive maneuvers from his ability to manipulate his body and extremities. It was a really neat trick, but it wasn’t anything that really intimidated Squirtle. In fact, the Water Pokémon was certain that he had to hold an advantage at least in a statistical degree.

“Come on now,” the cyan reptile said with a toothy smile. “It is about time that we get down and dirty, so what do you say, Luffy?” Before the apparently Japanese bumpkin got a chance to think of a witty retort to the turtle’s banter, Squirtle unleashed a torrent of water from his entrails. The blast of fluid struck Luffy in the gut and sent the lanky man tumbling onto his derrière.

Pushing the offensive, the Tiny Turtle kicked off the moldy floorboards and came down on the wiry man’s gut. Unfortunately for Squirtle, his opponent managed to quickly defend himself with a quick whip of his rubbery arms. As the amphibious superstar staggered, Luffy dislocated his own legs and stretched them backwards and around his attacker—effectively wrapping around the child-sized warrior like two giant, fleshly ropes.

“What the hell is this?” Squirtle roared. “Some type of ridiculous display of your S&M prowess? Get the fuck off of me,” the turtle shouted—his tone betraying his underlying sense of disgust as opposed to any real rage or frustration. The comment elicited a playful chuckle from the man of rubber, but instead of relenting, Luffy simply tightened his grip on the small creature.

“Capitulate!” The officer of the Truth declared without any real malice. “Just allow me to take you back to our encampment and maybe I can persuade my bosses to spare you life,” the statement summoned a great deal of anger from the bowels of the Tiny Turtle. After all, who was Luffy to think he was superior in any way, shape, or form than Squirtle? Had this backwater, sandal-wearing fruit ever been resurrected by a bolt of lightning? The answer: A resounding ‘Fuck no.’

“Go to hell!” The turtle declared as his power surged to its breaking point, and with a lot of grunting and strain, the Water Pokémon managed to create enough of a space for him to escape from the vice-like clutch of Luffy’s elastic legs. As the azure reptile flipped backwards, his adversary quickly made it back to a standing position. Squirtle glared hatefully at his antagonist, but soon enough that loathing manifested itself in the form of a violet offensive.

Darting forward, the Tiny Turtle unleashed a condensed sphere of dihydrogen monoxide right into the visage of the Truth acolyte. The impact sent Luffy’s neck snapping back as the hat atop his brow was shattered by the force of the bubble. A surprised shout escaped the maw of the lanky soldier as he clawed at his youthful features in a distressed effort to remove the lingering remnants of the viscous sphere from his countenance.

Squirtle watched on with a malignant smile as Luffy lowered his fingers and clenched them into two bony fists. The scruffy, obsidian hair of the hominid was matted down to his cranium by the liquid, and his face was reddened from all of the intense rubbing. Despite his obviously high level of discomfort, Luffy seemed unrelenting in his mission to eradicate the turtle and fulfill the Truth’s will.

“Squirtle,” the man said as he unbuttoned and discarded his vibrant vest and then threw it to the wayside. “I most certainly recall your name from the database. You are the most prevalent of the anarchists, and it will be both an honor and a treat for me to purge you,” the comment made the Tiny Turtle smirk.

“Shut the fuck up and fight,” Squirtle remarked as he fixed piece of fabric tied around his hairless cranium. Without so much as a closing remark, the two warriors leaped from their respective positions and clashed midair. Exchanging a blurred, rapid volley of punches and kicks, the adversaries touched back down on the floor and jumped away from one another. With a violent flick of his arms, Luffy sent two high-speed punches bulleting through the air at his reptilian foe.

Leaping off the ground, the Tiny Turtle landed on one of his antagonist’s arms and sprinted down the fleshy expanse toward the unwary primate. Charged up the elongated shoulders of the man, Squirtle slammed his fist into Luffy’s neck just as the Truth officer’s arms retracted to their normal length; however, the elastic Homo sapiens managed to get a final, rather potent strike in before he doubled over in pain.

The punch sent the Water Pokémon crashing through a molded desk and straight into the wall of the room. Squirtle let out a blood-laced declaration of pain as he struggled to dislodge his carapace from the impact crater it had left on the wooden wall. On the other side of the room, Luffy was fighting against the wash of darkness that had almost culminated in unconsciousness.

Although their little meeting had been brief, it had also been rather intense, and both warriors in that dusty, dreary room knew that their conflict was quickly reaching its terminus. One of them was going to slip up and pay for it dearly, and the only question still remaining was the one that asked: Who was it going to be? Would it be the tall, lanky soldier of the Truth known as Luffy, or would Squirtle be the one to make that last, fatal error in judgment?

Following the lapse in combat that had allowed for both combatants to regain their bearings, the conflict hastily resumed. The elastic man was the first to react, and he did so by throwing his final gambit on the table. Two fists of rubber sent Squirtle out the window and left the soldier with a goofy smile on his face.

It was a happy ending. The black-haired youth walked forward and picked up his straw hat from the moldy floorboards. Looking out dramatically into the sunset, he turned to no one in particular and cracked a huge toothy smile. There was just one problem in the situation: It wasn't even near sunset. Before Luffy even realized what was going on, the Squirtle exploded from the floorboards beneath his prey and latched onto the boy's head.

"Fucking Homo sapiens," the Tiny Turtle hissed as he proceeded to unleash a torrent of frozen vapor upon the lad's head. After a few moments, Luffy's face was frozen in a position mixed between his huge goofy grin, and a look of utter bewilderment and fear. With a growl, the Pokémon twisted then violently pulled back. With a sickening snap, the aspiring military officer was decapitated. The battle was over, and Luffy was dead. “Everyone knows there are no such things as happy endings in war,” Squirtle snickered.

After destroying the competition, the Tiny Turtle collected the broken body in a nice pile. With a nearby match, he ignited the corpse of the faggot officer. Squirtle did not know when the fighting outside actually came to an end, but from the information Greg had acquired through his various sources on both sides, the Truth had faltered for the first time during their campaign. With their defeat at Central City, the blitzkrieg had come to a screeching halt at the bloody trenches around and within the town.

“Damn Homo sapiens,” the Tiny Turtle seethed, taking another generous bite out of Luffy’s cooked thigh. “They must really get their rocks off to this kind of shit. I mean, seriously, who the fuck just runs around and kills their own species? I find it increasingly harder to deal with their continued parasitic infestation of Earth,” the Water Pokémon said between chews. After swallowing down the mass of meat, he turned to Glen and let out a potent sigh.

“We do suck ass…some of us in all literal senses of the phrase,” the comment sent a shiver down the child-sized reptile’s reinforced spine.

“Fags,” Squirtle muttered, wrenching the last chunk of muscle tissue away from Luffy’s femur. Swallowing down the meat a moment later, the Tiny Turtle threw the bloody bone on the pile with the rest of them.

“Well now that you finished that,” Glen stated with a sarcastic undertone. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Pushing off his haunches, the azure warrior picked up his vanquished opponents still frozen head and smiled.

“This is what you get, you elastic prick,” Squirtle snarled, slamming the icy skull onto the wooden floorboards and smiling as it shattered into blood and frozen tissue. Finally satisfied with his undeniably swift and complete dispatching of the stupid country bumpkin, the Tiny Turtle turned around.

“Well?” Glen asked, his rather nasally tone always an irritant on the Pokémon’s ears. Before answering, Squirtle collected the hat of his defeated adversary and placed it upon his bald, blue cranium.

“We chill here and see where the rest of war moves to and follow it,” the turtle answered. “I wouldn’t mind being able to find that hydro faggot and slowly choke the life from his inert, blank face. Now let’s get the fuck out of here, human,” the cyan warrior said, striding toward the stairs and motioning for Glen to follow him.

Squirtle had not gained that much from his short tenure fighting the Truth, but from the shattered skull he was gripping in his hand, one could easily figure out that the Tiny Turtle had enjoyed every moment of it. Nevertheless, the amphibious revolutionary knew that he could not dawdle any longer fighting some stupid organization with inane values and logic.

***​

After ditching Glen to fight on the frontlines for him, Squirtle started to make his way back to the location he had dwelled at prior to the war. It had been where he had originally started his journey to liberate his kind from the dictatorship that man had imposed upon all of them.

Unfortunately for the sadistic little biped, things really never had a knack for falling in his favor. Just as he was about to board on of the last boats out of the region, he felt a strange tingly sensation befall him. Before a ‘fuck’ or ‘bollocks’ could slip free of his lips, he had slipped into an overbearing state of unconsciousness.

When he came to, Squirtle was in the midst of some stupid, fucking conflict. All around him, people were stabbing, punching, and blasting one another into oblivion. A heavy sigh escaped the Pokémon’s lips as the realization dawned upon him: Someone had dragged him back to fight in the god damn war.

“Sons of bitches,” the turtle roared, launching forward and leaping at the nearest warrior he could find. With a whip of his clawed digits, the amphibious revolutionary defaced the man—literally. As the man’s visage landed in a bloody, pulpy mass on the ground, Squirtle kicked off his chest and landed flawless in front of his body as it collapsed. Letting out a cackle befitting of only the evilest of evil dictators, the reptilian snatched up a nearby gun.

Noting the cartridge in the gun, Squirtle made sure everything was upon, and then he unleashed a stream of inescapable pwnage upon the battalion of soldiers rushing at him to avenge their fallen comrade. As the douchebags fell before him, the Tiny Turtle felt new waves of adrenaline course through his veins. This stupid fucking war was a saga in Earth’s history that needed to come to a close already. How long had this prick been fighting? Too fucking long, that’s right.

Letting off on the trigger, Squirtle eyed the fruits of his labor and smiled. Stepping forward, the Water Pokémon scooped up a cigar and lighter that had fallen from the fatigues of a soldier. With a flick of the flint, the turtle placed the cigar in his mouth and took a deep puff.

“I wonder how this could possibly get any more cliché,” he murmured, exhaling a small cloud of smoke from his azure maw. Just as he was about to walk away, irony struck, and the earth below him began to rumble. A shadow befell the battlefield as the tremors were complemented by the frightened screams of the troops slaying one another. Turning his bald cranium in the direction of the disturbance, the turtle was kinda startled by the presence of a massive lizard owning the hell out of everyone in sight.

“Spoke too soon,” the anarchist grumbled—spotting none other than Red Mage perched on the back of the titanic beast. Despite being at such an atrocious height, the mage stood out like a sore thumb. After all, a naked man hopping around spewing out the same old rhetoric was hard to miss. Furthermore, Squirtle always had keen eyesight, or at least he did whenever he was trying to cover up a blatant plot hole, because in a sense, awesomeness knows no physical boundaries.

Just as he was about to lose himself in another binge of egotistical ranting, Squirtle spotted a very familiar figure scaling the huge reptile. He may have been consumed in some faggish combination of ice and water, but the Tiny Turtle would never forget Major Andrews. The “Bearer of the Truth” was steadily advancing up the back of the Red Mage’s reptilian ally. The fight broke out a few moments later, and with an impulse to wrench Andrews’ head off, Squirtle broke into a sprint.

En route to the monster, the azure reptile scooped up a pair of his trademark sunglasses and another M16. With a grace that eclipsed that of the inferior hominids that infested his home world, Squirtle scaled the titan with relative ease. He made it to the scene of the brawl and leaped onto a nearby scute and lifted both of his weapons into the air.

“Hey!” The declaration derived the attention of both warriors, and they both properly pivoted in order to bask in the greatness that the turtle emanated with his every action. “Fuck you! I think you forget this bitch is mine!”

“The cat came back,” the nude mage said with a faint smile, but it was blatantly obvious that Major Andrews did not have the same sentiment.

“More interference?” The alchemist grunted. “And guns? Pathetic. Your weapons are no match for us.” The statement derived humble shrug from the shoulders of the Tiny Turtle.

“I can still beat the shit out of you with them,” Squirtle said with a cackle. “This I can do as well, asshole,” pulling the smaller triggers, the Pokémon fired a pair of forty-millimeter grenades straight into the gut of the Truthbearer. The impact staggered the man of water and ice long enough for the turtle’s naked ally to ruin Andrew’s life with a serious of vehement blows to the startled soldier.

“You fools!” The officer roared—a wave of water and ice rippling out from his figure and throwing a wrench into the gears of Team Awesome’s offensive. “I have your powers, and soon I will have your souls!”

“You have my powers?” Squirtle inquired, taking a puff of the cigar that had somehow stayed perfectly put during the alchemist’s tantrum. “Wow didn’t even notice that. Shows how much I don’t require them to kick your bitch ass,” the turtle pulled the trigger on both of his military weapons again. Andrews collapsed once again, startled by the explosive power of the guns. A few feet away, Red Mage began to chuckle as the Truthbearer crawled back up to a standing point.

“Bastards,” the man muttered as his body began crystallizing into a dense outfit of solidified ice.

“Awesome bastards,” the nude mage corrected before leaping forward to attack. Squirtle soon followed suit, and the unbridled pwnage resumed.

***​

Hela scowled as she turned the page and discovered that there were a chunk of missing pages. Had she not flipped through this book before buying it?

A sticky note was loosely attached to the back of her most recent page, so the woman peeled it off and scowled as she read it in her head.

I know I shouldn’t have let that idiot mage deal with writing this next portion ... Well here is the ending: after I pretty much killed that fag Andrews, killed the second-in-command of the army, and single-handedly owned the asshole in charge of the whole operation…

Hela, making sure that Azula wasn't conscious to take note, simply shrugged her shoulders and continued to read the next intact page.

***​

The veil of death began to cover Fate's eyes. His vision blurred and worsened until he shut his eyes in lieu of the pain. His face relaxed into something that was nothing more than a glorified death mask, and then his battered, mauled body made one last seizing motion as he drew his final breath.

"Hope, wait for me. This old man is finally coming home," the man gurgled, his eyes glazed over as he stared at some unseen entity.

A small blue foot came crashing down onto Fate's skull. Blood and bone splattered out beneath the foot of the Tiny Turtle. The Pokémon spat upon Fate's dead body and made one final comment.

"Shut the fuck up, fucker."
 
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Hela

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Hela scrunched her nose as she set the book down momentarily. There was another post-it note before the start of the next chapter.

Truth be told ... I miss that damn Mage. And even though I murdered the piss out of him (people like him never stay dead that long, it's fine), that stretchy pirate person wasn't that terrible. I wonder what they're up to?

The Queen of Asgard frowned as she transferred the sticky note to the page she'd just read. Her eyes looked over to Azula, who had drifted off to sleep once again. Leaning forward, Hela brushed some of the adolescent's sweat-stuck hair off her brow before eying the IV machine. When Hela heard a click-clacking of heels in the hallway outside the room, she casually threw out a necrosword to stop the nurse from walking passed.

"Y-yes?" The pink-haired woman replied as she sheepishly looked in on Hela. "May I help you, Ma'am?"

"Are these levels correct? She's still feverish," Hela conjured another sword into her hand. "Are you attempting to poison her?" She asked coyly as she started to leisurely toss the sword between her two hands. "Because I could provide you with a number of choices that would be much quicker."

"N-no, Ma'am," the nurse muttered as she slowly stepped into the room and glanced at some numbers on the machinery. After reviewing the clipboard at the end of the table, she returned it to its plastic cubby and turned around to see that Hela was standing three inches behind her. "They'll probably want to start her on a duh-different antibiotic. These types of infections are common with complicated surgeries. The Syntech staff could have likely repaired all this more completely, had you not requested to leave with her so soon."

"Ahh, so it's my fault?" Hela cooed as she took the top of one of the swords and traced it gently around the nurse's chin. "Is this how you treat a fretting guardian whose ward is ailing? With slanderous accusations?"

"N-n-no, Ma'am!"

Hela's smile dropped for a moment as she scraped the woman's neck, causing her to whimper as a little spurt of blood sprayed from her skin. Leaning in, her lips close enough to brush against the nurse's left ear, the Asgardian hissed as she addressed the wide-eyed woman. "Leave before I decide you are expendable."

The nurse, hand now pressed over the side of her neck, fled from the room, crashing and nearly taking down a shelving unit in the process. By the time Hela had turned to face Azula, the dark-haired woman's expression was all saccharine smiles once again. Eyes open, the princess' immediate focus was on the spatters of blood on her casted chest and left arm.

"It's not yours," Hela remarked as she returned to the bedside chair. "Good help is so hard to find these days." She added warmly before picking the book back up and leafing to the last page she'd read.

***​

Chapter 4: Revisitation

"Mother fuckers,"
Squirtle muttered as he disembarked the lonely ship. From behind the Tiny Turtle, the dismembered corpses of the crew and tourists lay on the bloodstained deck of the ship. The Pokémon had been willing to stay in the hull of the vessel for a week or so, but after a while, he got tired of eating dried foods and opted for the flesh and muscle of the crew. Once he decided on that option, it had only been a matter of massacring the hundred or so men, woman, and children on board.

Fishing a tiny toothpick whittled from a teenager’s femur, the amphibious superstar took a moment to pick out a tiny shard of meat from between two of his teeth. With a snicker, the azure reptile threw the pick into the nearby waters and took his first steps onto the elaborate, wooden pier. A few feet away, Squirtle eyed a battalion of troops marching down the wharf in full military regalia.

Sighing inwardly, the Pokémon reached behind his shoulders and removed his two machineguns from their location on his carapace. Depressing the triggers simultaneously, the turtle cut down the squadron in a hail of gunfire—reducing them to corpses in a rather minute timeframe. Without so much as a passing glance, Squirtle walked through the mound of corpses and vanished into a nearby ally before he was seen by any more morons with guns.

Once he had made his way out of the street, the Tiny Turtle spotted a nearby manhole and grinned. With relative ease, the Water Pokémon pried the manhole lid off and slipped into the sewer. Dropping onto the stone walkway that bordered the flow of waste and sewage, Squirtle slid his machineguns into his holsters and began down the damp, smelly canal. The reptilian insurrectionist understood what he had to do next: conquer. The only way to achieve that would be to locate the poor and destitute and whip them into a feverish, bloodthirsty mob.

Squirtle rounded a corner and encountered a homeless man living inside a mangy cardboard box. Gliding forward, the turtle lunged at the hominid and slammed him to the cold, stone floor. Before the victim had a chance to react to the attack, the Tiny Turtle drove his foot into the man’s throat and aimed one of his guns at the primate’s skull.

“You are going to give me some information that I require, or I am going to murder you in a rather painful manner,” Squirtle sneered as the frail man attempted to free himself from beneath the muscular, blue foot. “Tell me where there is a Pokémon Center! Tell me!”

“There is one at the corner of Fifth and Wabash. It’s three manholes south of here,” the vermin screamed. “Now let me—” the man’s sniveling was silenced by the destruction of his brain by a single round from the Pokémon’s gun. A sigh escaped the cyan lizard’s mouth as the sight of the expanding pool of blood and brain matter expanded slowly. Squirtle had kept his end of the bargain—he had killed the man in a quick and painless fashion.

Turning away from the corpse, the amphibious superstar began down the tunnel in the direction that the decrepit hominid had sent him. A minute or so later, the Tiny Turtle arrived at the ladder that his informant had designated. With jubilation, Squirtle ascended the aged, damp ladder and emerged once again onto the streets of the city. From his location in the middle of the road, he could easily spot out the Pokémon Center that the man living in the sewers had detailed.

Walking over to the bay window in front of the center, the azure reptile peaked through the glass and frowned. A pink-haired nurse could be seen pacing behind a counter as she tended to the customers that were filing through the accursed structure. Machinery behind her was whirling away endlessly and tirelessly. The Pokémon frowned as he contemplated his next course of action.

One way or another, Squirtle understood that liberating those imprisoned within the Pokémon Center would have to be his primary objective. If the amphibious revolutionary could free the destitute from their shackles, then he knew he would be able to advance his plot to save the city from the parasite known as Homo sapiens. First matters first, Squirtle would need assistance if he wanted to consider attacking such an installation.

Turning away from the temple of enslavement, the Tiny Turtle entered the alley behind the structure and began to hum to himself. He was still absorbed in the sheer fact that he had made it to the city after such a long and arduous journey; however, in the end, Squirtle did not doubt his prowess. From his time spent with Red Mage, the cyan lizard understood that he truly was awesome in every way, shape, and form. The turtle planned to display this by ascending to the position of power he was born to hold.

***​

Squirtle awoke from a few hours of slumber and stretched his limbs as a sigh escaped his lips. The Tiny Turtle smiled as he checked the condition of his guns and tightened the cloth pads he wore around his joints. The Pokémon had snuck into a condemned structure in order to rest his head without the threat of someone stumbling upon him and attempting to capture him. After all, those god damned trainers abounded in this city, and they had a penchant for preying on the sleeping and unwary.

“They can be a bitch, can’t they?” The voice invaded the turtle’s mind and immediately caused him to draw his guns and stand at attention.

“Show yourself, fucker!” Squirtle roared vehemently. His tiny digits were poised and ready to send a twin stream of bullets straight through whoever had thought it funny to sneak up on him in a badly illuminated structure.

“By all means, Squirtle, I am not your foe,” the figure said in a calm voice as it stepped out from the shadows that choked the room. A smile spread across the turtle’s face as he realized that his guest was another Pokémon. The newcomer stood a little higher then Squirtle and bore a much more humanoid style to his figure. His skin was a light-yellow color with a red star on the center of his forehead. A foxlike tail and set of similarly fashioned ears adorned his form, and his thorax was coated in a dense, brown plate. In his clawed, three-fingered right hand was a simple spoon.

“A Kadabra?” Squirtle said with the faintest traces of a smile on his cyan visage. “I suppose that would give some explanation as to how you’ve managed to pick up on my thoughts,” the comment elicited a smile from the physic Pokémon, who simply used his free hand to twirl around one of the moustache-like extensions that shoot off from the sides of his snout.

“You’ll have to pardon my lack of introductions, but I was so wrapped up in the immense hate and insanity that saturates your mind. Despite the degree of it, I found myself interested in the grand design of your scheming,” Squirtle smiled as the Kadabra bowed before him. “You are superior to me even with my mastery of the mind. I am enlisted to your cause, and I will not fail you and your quest to liberate our race from the oppressive rule of mankind.”

“What is the full scale of your telekinetic prowess, Kadabra?” The Water Pokémon asked, smiling from ear to ear. His new lackey grinned as his free hand extended toward a dusty chair lying a few feet away. As Squirtle watched, the wooden object began to quiver until it was lifted into the air and subsequently torn asunder. The display only made the amphibious revolutionary giddy with anticipation to gather more forces under this banner.

“Once I evolve again, I will be at the pinnacle of my physic domination,” Kadabra said, his usually monotone voice sounding uncharacteristically infused with excitement. “I recommend that we travel to the slums and recruit some of the Pokémon who are running free. They are trying to survive outside the centers, so if we acquire the means to successfully nourish them, we should gain their trust and assistance in your crusade.”

“Then I suppose our first step should be to ransack one of the small corner stores?” Squirtle asked, making his way outside the structure and onto the moonlight streets. “Actually, we should just murder the staff at the warehousing portion of the dock and use the ratios and imports there to fuel the homeless,” the turtle said with a smile as he bathed in the brilliance of his plan.

“Excellent plan, Chieftain,” Kadabra’s last word triggered the cyan reptile to turn around and smirk at his follower.

“Chieftain?” Squirtle said, chuckling lightly at the notion.

“If you are going to unite our species then you will require a suitable title, and for the moment, that sounds just fitting,” Kadabra stated, his feet lifting off the ground as he switched over to hovering telekinetically.

“It’ll do,” Squirtle replied with a toothy smile. “Now let’s go annex ourselves a warehouse or two,” the turtle’s subject nodded as his eyes glazed over in a white light, and his speed of movement increased to coincide with it. Sprinting forward, the pair of Pokémon quickly made their way through a network of alleys that connected the intersection of Fifth and Wabash to the city’s pier.

They arrived at their destination after a few minutes and immediately ascended the tallest structure in order to get a clear view of the network of structures they would have to siege. From the roof of the building, the two Pokémon could easily pinpoint which warehouse they needed to assail. A few barges could be spotted anchored near the wharfs that extended from the southern portion of the storage building.

“They’re exporting the goods we seek,” Squirtle murmured with an obvious trace of aggravation apparent in his voice. “We’re going to have to immobilize those three vessels if we want to maximize our spoils,” the turtle added, frowning slightly at the notion as he turned to face his ally.

“Let us get moving then, Chieftain,” Kadabra said, putting a hand on the shoulder of his leader. “I shall teleport us, just brace yourself,” before Squirtle had a moment to respond, the pair of Pokémon dematerialized in a flash of white light and reappeared near the south exit of the warehouse.

“You take one vessel, and I will siege the other. Now go!” Kadabra nodded his head and vanished once more as Squirtle leaped onto the side of his vessel and vanished inside an open port.

Sliding through the port window, Squirtle landed on a table where a few people were currently playing cards. The seamen’s yelps of surprise were drowned out by the sounds of their throats being torn out by a rather bloodthirsty turtle. With a few last motions, the amphibious revolutionary bitchslapped the dying men to the ground and made his leave. Drawing his guns as he stepped through the open doorway, the Water Pokémon gunned down every dumb bastard who bothered to rush to see what was happening.

“Come on, fuckers!” The Tiny Turtle roared above the hail of gunfire. “Spend all your time at sea having sex with one another, and you still cannot manage to take down one invader. You make me sick!” Switching over to forty-millimeter rounds, Squirtle obliterated both lines of seamen trying to get at him from over the corpses of their allies. The hapless bloodshed only lasted for a few more seconds before the entire vessel fell silent.

Sighing at how much easier it was to murder these fools when compared to the real soldiers he had murdered during the war, the cyan reptile returned his weapons to their holsters on his shell and began toward where the captain would be located. As he made his way through the sea of blood, bone, and biological shrapnel, Squirtle fished out a cigar and lighter from the carnage. Ignoring the fact that either was still usable despite being caught up in the rather one-sided confrontation; the amphibious revolutionary lighted the cigar and took a long puff.

“If that stupid mage was still around, he would so be satisfied right now,” the turtle muttered as he made his way onto the deck of the ship. Once out in the open, Squirtle could easily spot the superstructure that would contain the navigation chamber, and with a smile on his face, he sent a volley of grenades into the tiny, elevated room. The screams and flames that ensued were a clear indicator that no one would have any luck navigating the vessel out of port.

Still wearing the malicious smile he always bore proudly upon his countenance, Squirtle descended into the bowels of the ship and proceeded to rape the engine with a rather large beam of steel. Once the machinery was visibly ejaculating massive amounts of oil and fire, the Tiny Turtle left the ship behind and returned to the pier. A few moments later, Kadabra teleported in—covered in a light film of blood and ruined tissue. The physic let out a soft chuckle and turned his attention to the storehouse.

“I recommend that we move the wares to where you were staying near the PokéCenter,” Kadabra started. “We can then move in all of the destitute and form a temporary base of operations before razing the facility, Chieftain,” Squirtle nodded, and took a moment to bust a cap in the ass of a seamen who was approaching the duo with a rather alarmed look on his fag face.

“I’m going to travel to the slums of this metropolis in order to save us more time. Just come find me once you have completed transporting these goods,” with a nod, Kadabra gave his chieftain an angled, Roman salute and teleported into the warehouse. Squirtle smiled once again and began his journey to the slums just a few blocks nearby. Unfortunately for the turtle, his trek was interrupted at the halfway mark by a scraggly, yellow mouse.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” The frail voice asked as the creature stepped out from nearby box and revealed itself to be one of the destitute Pokémon inhabiting the city. “I haven’t seen a Pokémon so clean and chipper in quite some time,” the words brought a frown to the visage of the amphibious superstar. Taking a puff of his cigar, Squirtle spoke enthusiastically and with a glint to his eyes that conveyed the confidence behind his words.

“Our people have been enslaved by the evils of man for far too long, brother,” the Tiny Turtle began, clenching his fingers and taking a moment to madly glare at the buildings around the pair of strangers. “I seek to unify our fragmented people and bring an end to mankind’s never-ending rape of our homeworld! We are more evolved than those Homo sapiens ever shall be. It is time that we burn this concrete jungle to the ground, and then we shall fertilize the new, unmolested earth with their corpses!”

“Valiant aspirations,” the new Pokémon said with disheartened expression on his furry face. “But what makes you think that you’ll be able to succeed? Man is no pushover, and Pokémon can only do so much, you know?”

“Wrong,” Squirtle stated bluntly. “Separate we can achieve little to nothing, but if we were to unify the different types and species, man would be crippled below our amalgamated might. I was born a tier above the rest, I know this, and I know my potential. I will not fail my people, and I will not fail you. I implore you…join me, Pikachu,” the Tiny Turtle concluded, extending his hand toward the bipedal mouse.

“Anything is better than trying to scrounge for food and avoid those incessant, malignant trainers. I will follow you if it means liberation and an escape from this hellhole,” the words brought yet another smile to the reptilian insurrectionist’s visage—even Squirtle himself never imagined he could be this happy, but the recent victories had worked wonders.

“I’m en route to the slums of this city to save our brothers from the horrid living conditions and supply them with food and sustenance. After I have amassed enough followers, I shall lead us on an assault against a nearby PokéCenter to free those inside. Let us depart immediately,” the Tiny Turtle’s instructions elicited a smirk from the face of the decrepit mouse.

Without so much as another word between the two of them, the pair began toward their designation with look of determination on their faces. Both of them understood the challenge that was waiting upon the horizon, but failure was not an option.

***​

A few hours had passed since the reptile and his mammalian underling had arrived at the expansive slums. After a long, tedious venture, it seemed as if they had managed to amass a great portion of the Pokémon inhabiting the grotesque location. Although most of them had no idea why they were being assembled en masse, a great percentage of the individuals gathered seemed genuinely delighted. From the shadows located near the front of the group, a kid-sized, blue figure stepped forward.

Stepping onto his makeshift lectern, the Water Pokémon stared out into the crowd and estimated the headcount to be near two dozen. The variations and different subspecies of Pokémon accumulated filled the amphibious superstar with great pride and a sense of accomplishment. Taking another long hit off his cigar; Squirtle exhaled the minute cloud of carcinogens and laughed. After all, the Tiny Turtle found it humorous that so many humans partook in such a lethal habit despite being fully aware of the consequences for such horrible hobbies.

The number of deaths relating to tobacco products was constantly on the rise, and it was kind of ironic that Homo sapiens were such a self-destructive species. That is why they will never achieve the evolutionary perfection that Squirtle’s divided, enslaved people have. Man would die out from war and infectious diseases long before they could even hold a match the Pokémon; however, this was a fact that brought only happiness to the “Chieftain.”

“Fuck cancer,” the cyan turtle muttered. In the end, he could smoke as much as he wanted, and because he was a Pokémon, the silly, manmade toxins would have no effect on him. Man may be cancer’s bitch, but cancer would always and forever be Pokémon’s bitch.

“Are you ready, Chieftain?” Pikachu asked from a few feet away. The yellow mouse seemed a lot more chipper and enthused then he had when Squirtle and he first met. Although most of it was because of the bath, the turtle could genuinely see that the Electric Pokémon seemed to be filled with life and vigor once more. The best part was the fact that Squirtle knew he had bestowed Pikachu with such drive and purpose, and the azure reptile intended to instill that same purpose into all of his species.

“Yes,” Squirtle said with a nod and a friendly smile. Sparks of electricity sizzled to life and began to dance painlessly across the mouse’s coat. A moment later, the Electric Mouse threw his hands forward and fired twin bolts of electricity into an old fuse spotlight that his reptilian leader had found discarded a few blocks away. Once infused with enough raw power, the device sprung to life and bathed Squirtle in a brilliant glow—illuminating him so that even those in the back of the crowd could see him without strain.

“Comrades!” Squirtle bellowed at the top of his lungs from the milk crate upon which he was performing his dissertation. “You may be asking yourselves why you have been assembled in this dank, putrid alley by a Squirtle and Pikachu,” a few whispers in the crowd verified the turtle’s claim. “I come to all of you as a brother-in-arms and as someone who is willing to help lift the curse of fear and poverty that had consumed your daily lives. I am offering you the opportunity to live happily and without having to scrounge around for food just to survive.

“I seek to unify our fragmented, disillusioned people under a sole banner and lash out against the tyrants that have kept us under thumb for generations—Homo sapiens! How many of you have fled for your lives from one of those bastards who wanted to cook you for a meal? How many of you mothers and fathers have watched as you children were stolen away from you by a trainer seeking to enrich his ‘collection’?

“Because I will say this to you, that is all they view us as: Trophies. They trap us in those accursed spheres like we are their pets that do not experience sorrow or pain. That is no way to live at all, comrades, and I will make it so that we live in a world without that fear! How many of you are orphaned now because your parents now spend their lives in a tiny ball? Worse yet, they are brainwashed into warring their own kind and aiding in their enslavement.

“‘Gotta catch ‘em all!’ they say to justify their insatiable appetite for enslaving us, but do you know what I say? Gotta fucking kill ‘am all!” By this point in the speech, Squirtle had begun to subconsciously incorporate a variation of hand gestures as his tone of voice grew from calm to enraged and then back down again. If the turtle would have had a bowl cut of any type, then his gelled bangs would have already fallen out of place a few times by now.

“Will you join me, comrades? Will you help me liberate our people? Will you help me make a world where you will never go hungry again and never have to worry about the safety of your families?” Squirtle’s hands and eyes were extended toward the sky as his speech reached a dramatic and epic conclusion. A few moments passed as the message sunk into the minds of the audience, and then the unbelievable happened—a thunderous applause and chorus of hoots and hollers exploded into the night sky.

The Tiny Turtle had achieved the amazing feat of unifying an economically troubled and disillusioned people by their hatred of mankind. Now it was only a matter of time before Squirtle would be able to bring together the rest of his people and drive man out in a brilliant, euphoric genocide. Actually, when he thought about it for an extended period of time, the Pokémon decided that holocaust was a much more fitting term.

As the turtle was bathed in the adoration, he felt something strange consume him…
 

Hela

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The Girls
"I like this part," Hela remarked as she leafed over to the start of the next chapter. "Who doesn't love a little insurrection and anarchy, eh?" The woman snickered as she looked at the bedridden teenager. "I ever tell you about the time I overthrew the city of Asgard myself after single-handedly defeating my idiot brothers."

Azula rolled her eyes. She'd heard the damn story a half dozen times, but she couldn't issue a coherent response.

"I'll tell you some other time," Hela laughed. "It's a good one. Those idiots."

Had she been able to speak, Azula would have brought up the ending of the story, which was the part that Hela often left out of the retellings (but had been folly enough to reveal to the princess and 'their dog' on one of the earliest occasions of their 'journeys' together). The queen failed to leave out the part where her armies were defeated by a bunch of 'cosmic space trash' and that her 'idiot brothers' had conspired to defeat her by heralding the destruction of their home. Humility, however, was something that Hela rarely indulged in, especially when preening and gloating to their inferiors... of which there were many.

"Anyway, where was I?" Hela mumbled as she glanced back down into the book. "Ah, yes. Insurrection."

***​

Chapter 5: Evolution

I
t was like another bolt of lightning had struck the Tiny Turtle, but for one reason or another, the energy now coursing within him felt increasingly comfortable. It was as if he had been bathed in some sort of raw power, and Squirtle loved every single second in which the bizarre sensation remained unending. The audience that had been listening to the Pokémon’s dissertation seemed enraptured by the events unfolding before them, and that became evident by the wave of silence that quickly befell the individuals crowded into the alley.

“The power…” Squirtle murmured, lifting his right hand so that he could look at his convulsing digits. A few feet away, Pikachu poked his head out from behind the spotlight and quickly his expression became synonymous with that of the entire crowd. Near the back of the swarm of pocket monsters, Kadabra watched on with jubilation and awe. After all, the Psi Pokémon had felt the raw, unbridled energy once before in his meager existence. He knew the exact degree of delight in which his Chieftain was basking.

Throwing his hands toward the full moon above, Squirtle’s eyes widened as his pupils dilated. The amphibious revolutionary parted his trembling maw as a beam of light forced its way up from the confines of his body and exploded into the nigh sky—scintillating excessively. Before the amalgamation of Pokémon could shield their eyes, the immense light seeped out from the body of their leader and blanketed his form in its luminosity.

A lone, empowered howl eclipsed the melodic sound that the light made, but just as it had escaped, the howl descended the octaves until it became a petrifying snarl. As the central beam of photons faded away, it left behind a light-enveloped Squirtle who seemed to have almost doubled in size. As his followers watched on with fanatical anticipation, the white form of the Tiny Turtle began to mutate and transform into something new and increasingly awesome.

The light dispersed in an explosion of oversized photons, and Squirtle was left behind in the dazzling array to pant and sweat excessively. Unfortunately for the Water Pokémon, he was not quite done with the task at hand, and with a simple convulsion, the final moments of the strange occurrence began to unfold. Like a cascading wave, the turtle’s skin tone darkened to a deep, indigo-blue—starting at the tip of his head and terminating at his toes.

Two dark dots accented his cheekbones and a pair of extra-large canines slid out from his upper jaw and down over his lower lip. The small, almost raccoon-like tail that Squirtle sported suddenly swelled in proportion to coincide with the transmogrification that the reptile was undergoing. A moment later, the caudal appendage became consumed in a coat of white fur as it reached its final, outrageous size and subsequently fell to the earth.

Just as the tail was finished morphing, two ears jutted painlessly from the sides of the turtle’s cranium—covered in fur identical to that of the Pokémon’s new tail. As a final means to complement the transformation—the new creature’s fingers were each granted a gruesome, hooked nail. With one final, post-orgasmic sigh, the being that was once Squirtle relaxed his shoulders and flexed his new digits.

“Comrades,” he started, with a voice much deeper and chilling then his previous incarnation. “As if this is not proof enough, my words shall no go unfulfilled. Now follow me to the location with which I have founded a base of operations. Once we arrive there, you will have all the food you could ever want or need, and I will detail our first order of business in the crusade against mankind!” Another rampant applause ripped through the alleyway as the evolved Pokémon Chieftain turned around and began his march toward his headquarters.

“Welcome to the realm of Stage One, Squirtle,” Kadabra spoke after teleporting in next to his metamorphosed leader.

“Wartortle,” the reptile spoke with a malevolent grin. “The time is ours, Kadabra, and soon we shall move to free our enslaved brethren. Once they are free, we will move to bigger and grander aspirations.”

“Your will is mine to fulfill, Chieftain,” Kadabra said with a bow.

***​

Wartortle smiled as he marched down the line of crates—his hands crossed behind the small of his back. The subjects he had gathered had amassed within the rickety old tower that had become the revolutionaries’ base of operations for the coming operation. The feast had begun several hours ago, and it was still underway as the Pokémon attempted to gorge their starved stomachs.

Plucking up a leg of chicken, the reptile’s evolved canines sliced cleanly through the rather soft meat. With a satisfied smirk, the turtle swallowed the mouthful of poultry and cast the bone into a nearby crate singled out for composting food ruled inconsumable. Wartortle completed his inspection of the provisions and then promptly meandered over to a nearby box that had been overturned to serve as a crude table. Seated on the ground around the makeshift piece of furniture were Kadabra, Pikachu, Jigglypuff, and Oddish.

“How are things, comrades?” Wartortle asked with a warm smile as he rested a hand on the broad shoulder of his psychic ally. All of the Pokémon seated waved a hand affectionately at their leader…save Oddish who lacked the proper appendages. The minute little guy simply waved a few of the broad leaves sprouting up from what was both his cranium and body. Wartortle returned the favor and took a position on the floor right next to the living shoot.

“This food is amazing,” Oddish said as he took a bite from what seemed to be some type of starchy vegetable. The mobile plant’s voice conveyed the impressionable youth and naivety he had been wrought by all his life. It brought a great sense of satisfaction to the turtle’s heart to know that he had saved the child before him from growing up into a world of terror and potential slavery.

“So tell us what lies on the horizon, Chieftain,” Pikachu asked after cooking a slab of beef with his innate powers of electricity bending. The mouse’s potential as an engineer had been shown before when he set up the lighting at the rally a few hours prior, and Wartortle knew that only greater things would come from the tiny, yellow mammal.

“Once we have taken the correct amount of time to nourish and outfit ourselves,” Wartortle spoke, pausing just long enough to scoop up and devour a small piece of celery. “We will mobilize our numbers and infiltrate the Pokémon Center a few blocks away from this location. Our goal in that operation will be to free our brethren enslaved in their machines and holding cells. We will murder the staff there and make certain that the city officials know we were the perpetrators.”

“Why are we going to make certain that the humans know it was us who perpetrated the attack?” Jigglypuff inquired. “Couldn’t we just do what the majority of these people do and blame their internal conflicts on foreigners or the people that wear the towels?” Wartortle turned his attention to the balloon-shaped Pokémon and waved a finger as a smile spread across his reptilian visage.

“While I could be simple to feign involvement and continue to hide in the shadows,” the Chieftain began, speaking with an informative yet sardonic tone. “We need to make our presence known if we ever want to leave an impact on society. We must make ourselves known early. We need to strike fear into the hearts of the Homo sapiens! Mankind loves to bullshit and gossip all the damn time in case none of you have picked up on that morsel of information; therefore, we just to do something intense, and through all the news circuits, radio, and internet, we’ll be indirectly receiving a load of free advertisement for our cause.”

“And that way our brothers who are enslaved or impoverished in other parts of the city, country, and world will hear of us and rush to join our crusade?” Another Pokémon—a male Nidoran asked from behind his seated leader. Glancing over his shoulder, Wartortle smiled and nodded at the young creature. In such a short period of time, his new comrades had learned and mastered the course of action. Unlike man and his evolutionary inferior cerebral capabilities, Pokémon always displayed a vastly increased learning response.

“Who’s that?” Jigglypuff inquired, raising one of her stout appendages and pointing out a figure situated in the shadows of the room. Standing up hastily, Wartortle tightened his dexterous fingers into a pair of fists and tilted his head. The tall turtle was attempting to get a look at the entity standing near the back corner of the warehouse, but even with his acute sight, he was unable to scope out the interloper’s identity.

“I’ll investigate this,” the Turtle Pokémon decreed—strolling into the shadows that surrounded the lone figure. Wartortle let out a sigh as his furry tail tensed up and the normally blue shade of his knuckles faded into a color vaguely reminiscent of the sky. As the revolutionary advanced, the figure’s visage turned to face him, until finally the Pokémon chieftain could see that a woman of sorts had infiltrated his complex. “I should kill you on the spot for coming in here,” the turtle spat, his words saturated with animosity.

“There will come a time when you understand how truly special you are, Wartortle,” the female spoke—her words bizarrely benign. “You’re even greater than you imagine,” with a forward thrust of her hands, the woman gently knocked the turtle backwards in a brilliant flash of white. The force of the discharge was just enough to send Wartortle toppling onto his posterior, but before anyone was the wiser, the anarchist had sprung back to a standing position.

“Where’d you go?” He spoke silently. The mysterious woman, whose face he had been unable to see, had vanished back into the shadows from which she had emerged.

“Are you okay, Chieftain?” Kadabra asked, resting a hand on the turtle’s arm out of the same compassion reflected in the demeanor of the silent crowd.

“Yea, but the time has come,” Wartortle spoke, turning his attention to his seated allies. “The time is nigh, comrades! We attack!” The words set forth a roar of applause that rattled the aged warehouse to its very foundations. An assortment of hands went up into the air as the choir’s cheering swelled. Motioning for the door, the Chieftain led his tribesmen onto their first battle.

“Stop right there!” The words coincided with the sudden demolition of the structure’s front door and an aggravating influx of policemen. Armed with riot shields and shotguns, the first men of officers dropped down to a single knee and threw up their plastic barriers as the other half of their rank took standing positions behind them. Wartortle sighed as the city’s finest began to pump their weaponry. “Put your hands up and surrender yourselves now!” One of the officers ordered from behind the wall of translucent plastic and shotguns.

“How in the blue hell did you find out about my operation so quickly?” The anarchist amphibian said jovially “I didn’t think I left that much of a trail back on those barges, nor did I imagine you fat bastard would be able to peel yourselves away from your endless agenda of donuts and sitting on your asses long enough to confront my comrades and I.”

“We will not allow you to begin a spree of domestic terrorism, Wartortle,” the same man replied, lining the barrel of his shotgun up with the forehead of the dexterous insurrectionist. “Now you will either lie down, or we will be force to shoot all of you.” The order elicited a fit of giggles from the Pokémon chieftain. After taking a moment to clear his throat, Wartortle grinned at the policemen and pointed to two massive tanks that decorated the posterior wall of the abandoned warehouse.

“Each of those tanks contains close to about a thousand gallons of water a piece, gentlemen,” the turtle said cordially as a smile spread across his indigo visage. “Now in case you uneducated fucks weren’t already aware of it, I am a Wartortle. I would like to show you a neat little trick I know that goes a little bit something like…this!” With that final word, the Pokémon threw forth his clawed digits. A few yards behind him, the tanks ruptured as a torrent of water exploded forth.

Initially traveling upwards, the two massive deluges reached their apex before anyone was the wiser. They immediately split into several smaller projectiles and came hurdling back toward the ground like aqueous comets. Twisting and spiraling as they exploded forth—the concentrations of water glided over Wartortle and slammed into the two lines of policemen before any of them had a chance to discharge a single round. With viper-like accuracy, the miniature waterfalls struck the men—plucking them off the ground and hurdling them to the nearest hard surface.

“Fuckers,” Wartortle murmured as he drew his weapons. Before the Turtle Pokémon had a chance to slay the battered and broken policemen, they were mauled to death by a group of his comrades. The lynch mob ended when a single shot from one of the chieftain’s machineguns executed the last officer. “Let’s go,” Wartortle said abruptly. Nodding their heads, his assortment of thirty or so subjects lined up behind him and followed their leader as he made his way over the mass of mutilated corpses.

The trek was a slow and tedious one, with the Pokémon not wishing to interact with any more idiotic humans then they had to in one night. Nevertheless, after half an hour or so of spelunking through sewers and traversing a network of alleys, the cadre of revolutionaries arrived at the Pokémon Center they sought. From their current position, it was clearly apparent that they had arrived during a nightshift.

“Should we try another night, Chieftain?” Pikachu inquired. Wartortle wore a strangely calm look on his cyan countenance. The lanky turtle squatted down next to the Electric Pokémon and shook his head.

“If we pull off now, we will only give the police force of this stupid city more time to prepare and strike us down. We need to raze this facility and liberate our imprisoned brethren. We will need their assistance if we want to be able to obliterate these fucks,” after finishing the debriefing, Wartortle stood back up and pointed to the roof of the two buildings across the lane from their target. “I want flyers and long-range units positioned at both of those locations,” the turtle turned to the small group he had just been speaking about. “Can I trust you to be my eyes and ears outside, Fearow and Pidgeotto?”

“Of course, Chieftain,” the duo of birds uttered in unison. “I take it we are to follow the plans we discussed at dinner?” They added after being joined by the smaller members of the bird division.

“Yes,” Wartortle replied with an affirmative nod. Glancing upward, he pointed one of his clawed digits toward one of the buildings he had mentioned earlier. “You and the Pidgey trio are to take up positions on that structure, Pidgeotto. Fearow, I want you to take the pair of Spearow to the other building. Both of you are to take at least one or two long-rangers with you in case we have a worst-case scenario on our hands,” the group of birds acknowledged their orders and flew to the back of the group to recruit the Pokémon they required.

“What should I do, Chieftain?” Kadabra asked, stepping through the thinned crowd before dropping to a knee before his amphibious leader.

“I want you to go with the flyer groups,” Wartortle replied after mulling over the schematics for the attack in his cranium. “You are to message me in the event that either group spots some kind of potential aggressor.

“Your wish is mine to fulfill,” Kadabra said before teleporting to his allocated destination.

“Chieftain?” One of the smaller Pokémon inquired before Wartortle was able to issue the next order. “Who is that?” The comment triggered the Turtle Pokémon to divert his attention to the back of the alley in which he had assembled his forces. Tilting his head slightly, he noted that a giant, bulky figure could be seen leaning into a dumpster.

“I want the Sandshrews and Geodudes to return to the sewers and burrow up into the Pokémon Center and plant the Voltorbs there. After achieving that goal, remain silent and unseen until you receive further orders from me directly,” once Wartortle was confident that the correct party had been assembled, the turtle turned to the figure standing a few dozen feet down the alley. “The rest of you will stay here while I investigate our little interloper.”

Leaving behind the fifteen or so Pokémon that would comprise the bulk of the infiltrating forces, Wartortle crept down the dark alley with his two red eyes zeroed in on the figure shifting through the dumpster. As he drew closer, the amphibious revolutionary became increasingly apparent that the individual was a giant of some sort; however, the being’s actual appearance was veiled beneath not only a blanket of shadow but also a black cloak.

“Stranger,” Wartortle whispered, his fingers prepped to draw one of his weapons and fire the moment he detected any sneaky or aggressive movement from the stranger. Instead of the potentially malignant action he had anticipated, the figure reacted by pulling away from the container he had been siphoning through and staggering backwards in what seemed to be intimidation.

The sharp movement on his behalf caused the stranger’s hood to slide off the top of his rounded cranium—revealing a familiar face. The Turtle Pokémon retreated a few steps as he attempted to get a clear look at the giant’s face. Three crests projected from the gray flesh of the giant’s bald cranium. The flesh that surrounded the titan’s upper and lower jaw bore a color reminiscent of the epidermis of human.

Scars and cuts adorned the Pokémon’s visage and seemed to signify a life of torment and misery. From the sadness and fear apparent in the wanderer’s eyes, Wartortle could tell that he had lived a life of misery and torment. Despite the fear in his eyes, the species that the newcomer heralded from should have been considerably smaller. The Pokémon was twice his normal height and girth, but the terror in his eyes as he tried to back away from Wartortle was a complete and utter anomaly.

“Halt, Machamp,” Wartortle declared, reaching out toward the newcomer in an effort to prevent him from fleeing the scene. The muscular beast finally stopped shuffling backwards out of what seemed to be fear more so then an general interest in hearing what the scary, anthropomorphic turtle had to say. “I mean you no harm. I can tell from your outward appearance that we share the same enemy, and because of that, I am willing to enlist you to my cause.

“If you agree to assist my comrades and me during our endeavor, I will guard you from the species that did this to you. I will ensure that you will not have to spend the rest of your days scrounging through dumpsters and living in the filthy shadows of this accursed city. What do you say, my titanic comrade?” Time lingered for a little bit as Wartortle contemplated whether or not the obviously sheepish Pokémon was going to side with him.

When it seemed as if the Superpower Pokémon was going to remain silent and virtually catatonic, the Turtle Pokémon merely nodded his head and walked back to his comrades. Without commenting on the situation that had just unfolded, he nodded to Pikachu and pointed at the Pokémon Center. The battalion of sixteen soldiers made their way across the street in a flash and bundled together in an alley directly adjacent to their target.

“As soon as we get into the building I will parley with the staff inside,” the chieftain stated, leaning out from the alley and glancing at the structure. “Do not attack until I instruct you to do so. Does everyone understand?” Once he was ensured that everyone understood the course of action, Wartortle rounded the corner and opened up the glass door to the Pokémon Center. Once he was inside the facility, he quickly garnered the attention of the pink-haired woman meandered behind the counter.

“Why hello there,” she said, her eyes closed, and her face comprised of a beaming smile. “I’m Nurse Joy, and how may I help you today, poor Pokémon?”

“I come here to free my brethren who are enslaved in your machines and holding cells, and if you do not comply, I will murder you all,” Wartortle decreed, the fact that he spoke in English with such hatred completely reversing the woman’s attitude. Nurse Joy opened her eyes and stared at the six-foot turtle with a look of confused horror. “Yes, I can see the realization in your eyes, Joy, so what will it be? Will you and these cretins free my brethren or will your lives reach their terminus here and now?”

At that moment, Wartortle sensed something he knew all too well. Pivoting around to face the lobby area, the Turtle Pokémon batted away the red-white sphere that had been chucked at him with relative ease. The Poké Ball landed on the ground and rolled a few feet away. The foolish trainer that had thrown it backed away from the seething turtle and tried to flee toward the door. Before he managed to take two steps his chest was blown apart by a forty-millimeter grenade round.

“Oh my god!” Nurse Joy shrieked, but just as Wartortle was about to turn around and shut her fucking trap, the giant window that comprised the majority of the Pokémon Center’s street-side wall imploded. There was a black mass that soared through the shower of glass particles, and then the turtle realized that the Pokémon he had seen earlier had made a visit. Landing on the same side of the counter as the Pokémon chieftain, the muscle-bound monstrosity walked straight through the steel and wood and snapped poor Miss Joy’s body in half with his ham-sized fists.

“Impressive,” Wartortle decreed at the sight of his comrade throwing the bloodied, broken frame of the nurse through a nearby wall. Lowering his arms, Machamp threw off cloak to reveal his lower set of arms. “Now slay them, my comrades!” With that order, his team descended upon the frightened trainers.
 

Hela

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The Girls
"Isn't this fun, Zuzu?" Hela asked as she turned the page. "The angry turtle surrounded himself with capable followers and thus found himself on the way to victory." The rightful Queen of Asgard leaned over to make sure her words were heard. "Capable. Followers. Note how I use a plural word there, because it's important to have more than just a literal snake on your side if you want to murder all your enemies and bath in their blood while you listen to the lamentations of their dying children."

Azula scowled but found she had little strength to try and mumble something through the bandages.

"We need to have you socialize a bit more, Dear," Hela spoke with a faint sneer as she turned the page. "Maybe someone who doesn't vanish for eleven months out of the year, though." She paused. "And no, Zuzu, the dog doesn't count as your friend. She's a dog."

Azula rolled her eyes.

"Maybe we can enroll you in a summer camp? Maybe a summer semester over at Arcadia High School?" Hela's eyes went wide at the idea of Azula forced to wear a school uniform and to suffer through a daily bell schedule and 'mean girls'. "We'd probably have to put you in some Syntech jewelry though, so you don't accidentally have a fit and burn someone. You won't make friends if you burn the other teenagers."

Hela continued to laugh at her mental images for a few more moments before a writhing Azula forced her back to reality.

"That eager to hear more of the story? How fun," the Asgardian queen declared. "Let's continue."

***​

Chapter 6: Ascension

T
here was no other explanation. Wartortle was God incarnate. Those that followed him would be granted the greatest riches, the most prestigious positions in his new world order. From this moment forth, his liberation force would be feared, and he would stand at its helm like a fearless demi-god. Anyone who defied Wartortle and his crew were as good as useless—they would be percents on the death toll.

Not wanting to let his new ally have all the fun, the nihilistic maniac ordered his troops forward, and a wave of Pokémon surged forward, eager to please their leader. Several of the awe-struck trainers flew to the holding cells of their Pokémon. Some gathered anything they could find, intent on defending themselves and establishing their dominance. It was hilarious that men who lived their lives having slaves battle for them died so effortlessly.

In mere moments the ‘battle’ was over, with the multitude of revolutionists claiming an easy victory. Their leader waddled over to the broken nurse, tore her head from her body (with a little help from a grenade) and handed the totem to Machamp. The Superpower Pokémon, who had once been a shambling mess, accepted the prize and smiled faintly at the Turtle who had woken his urge to live.

“Thank you, comrade,” Wartortle decreed, taking a few steps away from the titan before turning to face his followers. “Our victory here was simple compared to the hell we are going to face as we advance our mission to liberate this city and the world beyond its boundaries. The ally we have gained today is but one example of the diversity of our people, and how potentially infinite our movement is when it comes to what we can accomplish.”

“My liege,” Kadabra spoke, teleporting into the lobby of the Pokémon Center and hovering over toward the chieftain. “I picked up the disturbances and saw the figure enter the Center. How do you fare, Chieftain?” The Psi Pokémon, spoon clenched in his fingers as always, bore an expression of genuine concern on his visage.

“Nothing to worry about at all, comrade,” Wartortle spoke, his voice relaxed and at ease as he gazed at the motionless Machamp. “We have a new ally in the form of a Machamp who seeks retribution for a life of torment and abuse,” the amphibious insurrectionist grinned malevolently at the prospect of having one of the strongest breeds of Pokémon fighting beneath his banner. The thought of such an immensely powerful ally made him giddy like a schoolboy. “Return to your post, Kadabra,” the reptile spoke, glancing over his shoulder at his resident telekinetic.

“I will inform you of any outsiders who encroach upon the scene of our operation, Chieftain,” the creature said, bowing out of respect before teleporting back to his rooftop vantage point. With Kadabra back at his post and the lobby of the structure definitively under his command, Wartortle turned his attention to the hallway.

“Rush the lower levels of this facility and purge them of the foul infestation of man,” the turtle ordered his subordinates. Each and every one of his soldiers seemed to be infused with an unyielding desire to spread carnage, so without so much as a nod of their heads, they poured into the hallway and down the nearby stairs. Walking over to the machines located behind the ransacked counter, Wartortle’s nimble fingers began to dance over the keyboard and array of switches and levers.

“Can you operate it, Chieftain?” Pikachu inquired, taking a position beside the tall turtle. The Electric Mouse Pokémon had stayed behind to safeguard his leader in case of a sneak attack, although Machamp was obviously capable of the task. Hearing the voice, Wartortle glanced down at the golden rodent and nodded his head. A moment later, the midsection of the machine split in twain. A white light spilled out from the confines of the machine—causing the three Pokémon to shield their eyes momentarily.

“Easy as cake,” Wartortle said with a malicious grin as the light faded to reveal around four dozen containment spheres. “Be free my comrades!” The turtle boomed, collecting up the Poké Balls and heaving them to the floor behind him. One by one, the Pokémon imprisoned in the apparatuses were freed, and as if they immediately knew what had transpired, they all displayed their glee.

“Chieftain!” The former slaves roared, pointed their fingers, and raised their right arms at a forty-five degree. The display of adoration and versatility brought a smile to the visage of the amphibious militant.

“Welcome to the future, comrades,” Wartortle dictated, performing a short tally of the soldiers and estimating their numbers to be close to thirty—a figure that doubled the Turtle Pokémon’s standing forces. In a span of a few days, the cerulean insurrectionist had gone from two followers to well over sixty, and he had even enlisted the servitude of the goliath known as Machamp.

We got trouble, Chieftain. Kadabra said, his telepathic voice conveying the fear afflicting the usually stoic psychic. There are about ten or twenty squad cars converging on our location. They’re going to be upon you in a matter of seconds, and the snipers are only going to be able to delay them for so long before they bring in aerial support. I suggest that you rally our comrades for battle, because this will be anything but enjoyable…Surge is with them. Once he had finished his dissertation, Kadabra’s voice faded out as the Psi Pokémon began to prepare for his role in the battle.

“We have to be ready,” Wartortle said with the utmost urgency. Just as the turtle’s mammalian lieutenant was about to speak up, the group amassed in the lobby was greeted by an inflated number of Pokémon freed from their confines and storage in the Pokémon Center’s basement. “Prepare for the fight of your lives, comrades!” The cobalt anarchist yelled, trying to get the attention of all the creatures amassed in the lobby. “The police force of this city is converging on this location in an effort to snuff us out, but I say nay! I say we shall snuff them out as the first victims of our wrath. Show them that we shall no longer be shackled by their oppression!”

“Come out of that building with your hands up!” The bullhorn ordered from outside the Pokémon Center. Turning around, Wartortle noticed that a huge contingent of police officers had indeed converged around the building.

“No, fuckers!” The Pokémon Chieftain roared, and with that command, a hail of stones, bones, and elemental attacks rained down from the snipers’ nests on the adjacent structures. With the police momentarily taken aback by the surprise attack, Wartortle threw a hand forward and order his troops of descend upon the hapless law enforcers. Walking out through the shattered doorframe, the turtle noticed a blonde-haired man garbed in military fatigues standing behind a line of police cars. At the man’s side was his sole Pokémon companion—a Raichu.

“You won’t escape,” the former military leader said, his expression gruff, heartless, and mirrored by his Pokémon sidekick. “Raichu! Destroy!” The man bellowed, throwing a gloved hand forward and pointing at the leader of the Pokémon liberation movement.

“Don’t make me kill you,” Wartortle said as the Raichu began to advance toward him, its face wild and unresponsive as it blindly followed its master’s order. Hearing the sound of footsteps approaching, the reptilian revolutionary turned around and saw Machamp lumbering toward the aggressive rodent. “Capitulate,” Wartortle requested, raising his hand and effectively halting the beast. “Help the others and I will deal with this,” the command fell on receptive ears, and the gray-skinned titan quickly turned and lurched into the fray.

Turning his attention back to the advancing Pokémon, Wartortle received ten thousand volts of electricity for his decision to avert his attention away from the mouse. The blast sent the turtle back into the damaged interior of the Pokémon Center and stole the wind from his lungs in the process. As he gasped for air, the amphibious insurrectionist tried to quench his insatiable hatred for the man who had turned the Raichu advancing toward him into such a mindless puppet.

“I will free you,” Wartortle said softly, climbing back to his feet and drawing his trademark weapons from the holsters strapped to his back.

Wartortle frowned as he opened fire upon the advancing rodent. Lieutenant Surge’s brainwashed slave returned the frown as its unparalleled agility gave it the edge it needed to evade the twin streams of bullets. Switching the levers on both of his guns, the turtle fired off two grenade rounds. The forty-millimeter shells detonated near the center of the lobby—knocking Raichu off course as he zigzagged toward his amphibious foe.

The Mouse Pokémon careened through the air before landing flawlessly on the wall of the building. Flipping off the vertical surface, the dexterous mammal landed on the ground and smirked at Wartortle. Firing off two more rounds, the reptile watched as the rounds failed to hit their fast-moving target. A few seconds later, the high-powered shells came in contact with a parked police cruiser and triggered an explosion that blanketed the street in a dense layer of smoke.

Coughing slightly, Wartortle narrowed his eyes and tried to detect his adversary through the smog. Unfortunately for the partially blinded revolutionary, he was struck with a sphere of condensed electricity before he could detect Raichu through the mayhem. The discharge sent the turtle into the nearby wall—an action which elicited a blood-laced scream from the chieftain.

“Where are you?” Wartortle wheezed, his fingers dancing on the triggers of his warmakers. Catching what he believed was the blur of a golden-colored rodent blitzing through the room, the insurrectionist took aimed and fired. After a few seconds, the Turtle Pokémon was rewarded by the surprised yelp of Raichu and the subsequent explosion that sent the misguided soul back onto the street.

Capitalizing on the turn the fight had taken; Wartortle lowered his guns and dashed out onto the battlefield. As far as the indigo-skinned turtle could perceive, the fight was going in the favor of his troops. A few yards away, Machamp lifted a squad car off the street and tore it in half. The muscle-bound giant discarded the two car halves into the front of the nearest building and immediately rushed into a group of shield and shotgun totting officers.

Even though the rounds packed enough punch to down a full-grown man, to Machamp their bite was as potent as that of a fruit fly. Picking up one of the policemen with his lower set of arms, the titanic Pokémon used his upper limbs to mercilessly beat the man in blue to a most painful death. The menial period of time he had exhausted watching his soldiers proved to be a most costly error on the part of Wartortle. With a gallant roar, Raichu leaped forth and slammed the side of his thunderbolt-shaped tail into the turtle’s face.

The sudden offensive staggered the leader of the Pokémon rebels long enough for his misguided adversary to pump him full of electricity. The overdose caused the flesh across the reptile’s smooth flesh to rupture in several locations. With blood now spilling out from several minor lacerations across his epidermis, Wartortle stumbled backwards and dropped his pair of boomsticks. Unable to see straight as his mind and head reeled from the pain, the revolutionary fell on his ass.

“I am saddened that you are beyond hope,” Wartortle wheezed, rubbing his fingers over a patch of blackened flesh on his cheek. “I knew that some of my brethren would be beyond hope, but I never conceived that a fucker like you would attack me so vehemently. Even worse than attacking me, you have spilled my fucking blood, and for that, I will fucking kill you. I will fucking kill you…fucker!” Leaping off the ground, the Turtle Pokémon opened his mouth and unleashed a deluge of water in the visage of his mammalian foe.

Raichu let out a squeak as the attack struck him in the face and caused him to stumble backwards. The rodent began to rub and swab at his eyes in an effort to clear the water away from his eyes. As his rival took a moment to regain his bearings, Wartortle pressed the attack by leaping forward and spearing the oversized rodent to the concrete. After pinning Raichu to the asphalt, the indigo reptile began to repeatedly strike him in the face with his fists and elbows.

“Get the heck off me,” the disillusioned servant uttered between blows as he desperately tried to rake at his attackers face with his fingers. When it became increasingly apparent that his enemy was not going to capitulate, Raichu reacted by discharging an ungodly amount of electricity from the yellow pouches on its cheeks. The sparks converged into a single bolt of lightning that contained enough power to send Wartortle hurdling into the night sky.

Even as it began to lose its intensity as it became more distant from its point of origin, the bolt of electricity still managed to retain enough of its power to send the wounded Pokémon crashing through the fourth-floor window of a nearby building. Exploding into the dark room amid a shower of shattered glass, Wartortle struck the floor and skidded across the wood until he came to rest against a dilapidated bookshelf.

“Fucker,” the injured revolutionary wheezed, struggling to liberate his carapace from the crater it had made in the shelf. Once he was freed from the crumbling wood, Wartortle stood off the ground and rubbed the side of his head. The pain he felt was excruciating, but the chieftain understood that defeat on this night would be the death of his crusade to usurp the tyranny of the Homo sapiens.

First and foremost, he knew that he had to save his own hide from the misguided Raichu seeking to terminate his life for the well-being of his dictatorial master. If Wartortle fell at the hands of one of his enslaved brethren, he knew that his comrades would become easy prey for the opportunistic vileness that man embodied. In their disillusioned state, they would be rounded up, enslaved, and then possibly submitted to the same torment that Machamp had gone through.

The sound of thunder garnered the turtle’s attention long enough to cause him to make a startling conclusion—a thunderstorm had fallen upon Vermillion. As the first claps of thunder subsided, Wartortle heard buckets of rain begin to pour from the heavens. Despite the ruckus that the storm was making, the insurrectionist could hear the sound of gunfire and war on the streets beneath his current location.

As he reclined against the shattered bookshelf, the cobalt reptile made a most bizarre deduction about the nature of the thunder. Listening more intently, Wartortle noticed that some of the claps of thunder seemed to be originating from below him. Just as the information was beginning to fall together, the ground split apart—the floorboards torn asunder amid a flash of searing white light.

Reeling back as the floor sought to devour him in its passing, Wartortle hopped backwards and steadied himself as wayward bolts of lightning began to dance and hop along the edges of the fresh crater. From the epicenter of the collapsed floor, an erratic mass of electricity rose—the white frame of a rodent barely visible amid its blinding luminosity. Snarling in aggravation, the cerulean reptile dove through a nearby doorway as a bolt of lightning zipped toward him.

Avoiding the explosion by a nearly microscopic margin, Wartortle landed in the next room and ducked below a table just as the wall behind him buckled. Light and heat seeped through the spreading fissures in the brick wall as the panicked turtle sought for some means to hide himself from the explosion. Unfortunately for the leader of the Pokémon rebellion, he had run into the most mundane, empty kitchens he had ever witnessed.

Spotting another escape route to his left, Wartortle gritted his teeth and made a dash for the decaying maple door. The turtle’s feet left the ground as the wall to his right exploded—a testament to the Raichu floating in the other room. Despite the intensity of the attack, its intended target had managed to dive straight through the aged door and to relative security.

“God damn it all to fucking hell,” Wartortle seethed, clenching his digits and glaring around at the dining room. The chamber was a dead end, with the only plausible exit coming in the form of a plunge down four stories to the concentrate. Rushing over to the window, the amphibious chieftain placed one of his hands on the glass and smiled at the intense storm. Down on the road, it seemed as if the police force had been scattered, and his forces seemed to be mowing down the bastards as they fled in fear.

“Anarchist!” The roar coincided with the complete and utter raping of the wall behind Wartortle. Glancing over his shoulder, the lizard frowned at floating mouse and felt his frustrations renewed on a whim. With a punch, he shattered the glass that stood between him and a nearly endless supply of the element designed to give life. Unfortunately for the Mouse Pokémon, the fluid was going to bring him nothing but death.

Death was the only thing that would be able to wrench Raichu from the grasp of his enslavers. Once the reaper embraced him, the mammal would be free from the chains of servitude and once again be able to live a life of freedom. Even if that life was in the radiant planes of Valhalla, it was better than an existence without freedom. As drops of water began to find their way into the room, Wartortle spun around to face the misguided Pokémon.

“I will free you!” The reptile boomed, lifted his hands above his head, and leered at Lieutenant Surge’s slave. Raichu, fully aggravated by the turtle’s display, extended his fingers and prepared to unleash another lethal blast of electricity. Unfortunately for the rodent, a shadow befell him just as he was about to gleefully electrocute his target. The shadows danced around as the liquid behind their creation churned and swirled as it collected en masse outside the structure.

With a commanding motion from its reptilian creator, the massive wave of water ripped through the brick, wood, and insulation of the building and struck down the free-floating mouse. What followed was the subsequent electrocution of the traverse waterfall by the blanket of electrical energy that enveloped Raichu. There was a bit of smoke as the charged water began to singe the rodent, but before long, the entire attack came to a lackluster end, with Raichu being flushed down the hole he had created earlier.

Capitalizing on the upset in his favor, Wartortle sprinted across the waterlogged boards and dove down the hole. Landing in a knee-deep pool of water, the turtle quickly started to scan the room for his elusive adversary. Turning his attention to the furry, orange mass floating head down in the murky liquid, the anarchist crept toward the fallen Raichu.

“Not enough!” The Mouse Pokémon hissed, sparks of electricity surging off his body defensively. Wartortle reacted by summoning up a wall of water to absorb the energy, thus removing its potential to fucking aggravate him. Even though small bursts and pockets of lightning managed to seep out and zap the turtle, it was a radical drop from the concentrated bolts being thrown at him moments earlier. After dropping the barrier of water, the Turtle Pokémon learned a harsh revelation—his nemesis had eluded him.

Sloshing through the liquid toward the only available exit in sight, Wartortle emerged in a back alley behind the Pokémon Center. He could spot the wounded Raichu limping away from him out of the corner of his eye. Stalking the mouse around the corner of the building, the reptile was surprised to round the bend and notice there was no one there. Raising a hand in an effort to quell the heavy rain’s diminutive effect on his vision, Wartortle squinted as he tried to locate his elusive foe.

A swift force parted the flesh on the back of the cobalt reptile’s neck and sent him crashing through a nearby door. Raichu, relying on his immense agility, had pounced upon the insurrectionist and tore his neck open with his claws. Wartortle let out an enraged roar as he tried to swing at his enslaved comrade. The turtle’s efforts were useless, as the two were already destined to take a nasty dive down a flight of stairs and crash into a stack of emptied cages.

Springing from the mass of broken bars and sheets of metal, Wartortle stumbled into a shadowy corner of the room and collapsed. The rebel was quickly reaching the apex of his physical capabilities, and it seemed as if his opponent simply adapted to everything he devised. The true salt on the wound was the fact that the turtle could potentially be slain by one of his own people.

“Chieftain!” The trio of robotic voices brought a smile to Wartortle’s weary visage. The three Voltorbs he had dispatched prior to the conflict were waiting in position as they had been instructed, and the act of stumbling upon them could not have come at a better time for the weakening anarchist.

“On my command,” Wartortle said, grinning malevolently as he turned to face Lieutenant Surge’s Raichu. The orange rodent returned the smile as it advanced—oblivious to the seeds of its demise lying behind its adversary. The moment the mammal charged forward, Wartortle leaped into the air and bellowed the instructions to the red-white spheres resting behind him. “Self-destruct!” Withdrawing into his shell, the turtle was knocked to the far corner of the room by the kick that followed.

Unfortunately for Raichu, once the turtle was done impeding his vision, he noticed the three bombs. The rodent’s eyes widened as the Voltorbs were eclipsed by a white light, and then the entire room simply ceased to exist. The triumvirate of bombs disintegrated the building as the flames and heat of the three explosions resonated high into the tumultuous night sky.

The battle outside, which had become nothing more than a complete and total slaughter, took a moment’s hiatus as the Pokémon and few surviving policemen watched in awe as the bombs detonated. The entire display, albeit fleeting, was nevertheless a beautiful, accretive way for the rebels to assert their dominance over the diminutive war that was reaching its conclusion. It also served to show the severity of Wartortle’s message, but even though he had been victorious, the Turtle Pokémon was still seriously wounded.

Liberating himself from the mound of smoldering wood and brick that had collapsed upon him following the explosion, the indigo reptile began to scale what remained of the stairs leading up to the lobby. Breathing laboriously, Wartortle began to utter obscenities galore as he tried to ignore the pain and feign complacency. Once he had made it to the lobby, the turtle began limping toward what little remained of the front of the structure.

“Not over,” the labored rasp elicited an angry roar from the injured revolutionary. Noticing one of his guns lying on the ground a few feet away, Wartortle waltzed right over to the remarkable unharmed tool and plucked it off the ground. Turning to face his nemesis as he reached the top of the stairs, the turtle verified that the gun was set to fire grenades.

Pulling the trigger, the leader of the Pokémon liberation movement launched the forty-millimeter slug straight into Raichu’s gut. The shell tore clean through the rodent’s stomach and sternum—shattering the chains of enslavement that had weighed him down his entire life. Gasping in agony as death moved to claim him; the mammalian Pokémon stumbled backwards and pitched backwards off the landing.

“Applesauce, bitch,” Wartortle muttered, a frown on his dirty, bloody countenance. After locating his other machinegun from the scorched debris, the amphibious superstar joined his comrades outside the remains of the Pokémon Center: The battle was over.

Wartortle let out a heavy sigh as he holstered his pair of boomsticks and turned his attention his comrades. From the way it seemed, the battle had been a completely and total victory for the Pokémon liberation movement. Mutilated corpses of police officers were visible all around, some torn to pieces while others were charred beyond recognition. The bodies and amputated limbs were scattered to and fro as a testament to the destructive power of the rebellious forces.

“Chieftain!” One of the Pokémon shouted, citing the frailty and bloody appearance of his leader. Wartortle raised a weary hand as he attempted to muster the strength to compliment his victorious allies. Unfortunately for the turtle, the energy was completely lost to him following the nearly fatal tryst with Lieutenant Surge’s Raichu. As he limped toward the conglomeration of Pokémon, the injured reptile was intercepted by Kadabra, who offered up an ornate cane.

“I liberated this from a passerby who took too long to pass by,” the Psi Pokémon replied, smiling maliciously as he handed over the elegant tool. Accepting the cane, Wartortle limped over the group of his comrades that had assembled for the sake of basking in his presence. From the looks on their faces, one would be hard-pressed to not realize that they had reveled in their triumphs.

“Victory!” Wartortle screamed, thrusting the cane into the air and initiating a wave of war cries that sent a shiver down the spines of pedestrians who had watched the slaughter. Noticing the small crowed sheepishly gawking at his army, the turtle cackled and pointed a finger at them. “Flee now or void your lives!” The authoritative command sent the crowd of onlookers screaming as they turned tail and ran for their lives.

“Why give them a second chance, my liege?” Pikachu inquired as he stepped out from the group of Pokémon and marched over to his leader. “They’ll just wind up as statistics in one of the next attacks, will they not?” the mammalian creature added, tilting his head slightly as he anticipated a response.

“To spread fear,” Wartortle said nonchalantly. Fear is what will ultimately give us the edge in this war against humanity. It is what will result in their own self-destruction as our hordes ravage the land,” the turtle smiled at the nods he received. Turning his attention to the wreckage of the Pokémon Center, he saw the Machamp peak over what remained of the staircase. The titan had recovered the three charred Voltorbs and the corpse of Lieutenant Surge’s Raichu from the rubble.

“Bury him,” Wartortle frowned. “He may have been beyond salvaging, but he is still a brother-in-arms,” with that command, the chieftain ordered the rest of his soldiers to retreat to the warehouse. The Pokémon trailed behind to ensure that the entirety of his troops was safely evacuated. Taking a few steps backwards, the amphibious revolutionary paused for a few seconds as he waited for Machamp.

Once the Superpower Pokémon had finished the burial, he emerged from behind the razed center and nodded to his leader. The ten-foot behemoth rushed over to Wartortle and scooped up the cobalt revolutionary. A few moments later, they were back at the front of the army and well on their way back to their base of operations.

***

A few days had passed since the successful fall of the Pokémon Center

“This is our next target,” Wartortle cackled, hovering over the crude diorama he had erected. “The Senate,” he snarled, pointing to a mighty tower erected near the middle of the city. “This building represents the epicenter of Vermillion City’s government so destroying them will directly cripple this locale’s ability to fuel any type of organized attack against us while we make our next move. Furthermore, the chaos that will result will be legendary and breed enough disorder to do a large part of the job for us. Just imagine the riots and panic that shall ensue, comrades!”

“How will we level the tower?” Kadabra inquired, hovering over the line of Pokémon in order to make his identity known among the hundred or so creatures gathered in the dilapidated warehouse.

“Simple,” Wartortle replied, smiling widely as he shuffled under the table for a few more models. When the indigo turtle popped back up over the model of the city, he was holding a few crude figurines. “Bombs,” the revolutionary stated simply, breaking out into an insane fit of laughter a moment after the word exited his mouth. Once he had collected himself, he returned to the debriefing as if nothing had happened. “We’re going to set a number of Electrodes in the basement of the facility, and the explosion should be quite enough to level the building.”

“We only have three Voltorbs, so how the heck are we supposed to get enough Electrodes to cause such a massive explosion” one of the Pokémon shouted from the back of the crowd.

“Wrong,” Wartortle replied. “In my studies, I have realized that Voltorb are born when Poké Balls are struck with potent electrical pulses. Further exposure to this voltage can result in an exponential increase in the Pokémon’s internal reservoirs and spur evolution. In our first campaign, we liberated several of you from the tombs of your imprisonment, so I simply used those apparatuses as test in my experiment.”

“Did it work?” Someone inquired, their identity masked behind the sea of Pokémon that had crammed into the building.

“You tell me,” Wartortle roared, taking a few steps back and opening the door behind him. A moment later, the sound of rolling steel garnered the intrigue of the teeming masses—who tried their hardest to get a look at the scene playing out in front of them. Laughing manically, the chieftain raised his arms and smiled as the Electrodes began to spill into the meeting hall…all twenty-four of them.

***

Over a week had passed since the initial planning stages of the Pokémon Liberation Front’s next operation. By the time Wartortle and his followers devised an adequate plan, the weather in Vermillion City had turned sour. A monsoon had been tormenting the city for over a week, with the threat of a hurricane formulating in the near future. Despite how much the Homo sapiens abhorred the immense rain, Wartortle found it a welcomed departure from the sun and heat.

Certain Pokémon found the change in weather crippling, and because of that, the ranks in the amphibious revolutionary’s army had been impacted by the loss of several hydrophobic soldiers. Wartortle was not deflated about the news, because he had plans in case the going got tough. The Pokémon smiled as the reality of his trump card being dealt in battle brought of lovely little image to his sadist mind.

A bolt of lightning tore through across the purple, dawn sky—the light illuminating the smiling visage of the cobalt reptile. Wartortle watched from a nearby office structure as a small group of his people vanished into a sewer conduit near the Capitol Building. From behind the turtle, there was a small burst of energy, and Kadabra stepped forth a split-second later.

“Chieftain,” the Psi Pokémon declared, falling to a knee in order to properly address his leader. “I have just received word that all four principal infiltration teams have successfully breached the structure, and that the two surplus crews have just entered the sewers. All of the salvos should be in place in less than five minutes,” the psychic added, his head bowed before the might of his leader.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Wartortle replied, waving his hand over his shoulder at the bipedal creature. “Dismissed,” the turtle ordered, glancing over his back until Kadabra followed his order and returned to ground zero. The reptile cackled as his red eyes returned the rain-drenched panorama that lay beyond the window. In a matter of minutes, the seeds of the city’s destruction would be in place.

In a few short minutes, Wartortle would be able to watch as an orgasm of light and fire claimed the lives of the city’s legislative body. With their deaths, the Turtle Pokémon would be able to command his troops onto a complete and total coup d’État of Vermillion. In his act of taking the city and claiming it as his own, he would be establishing his men and himself as a true and potent force in the world.

“Soon the world of man will burn,” Wartortle hissed beneath his breath. “And a new regime will rise from their ashes to lead a new world to a brighter future,” the Pokémon let out a cackle as he waited for the signal from Kadabra. Just as he was about to drift off into another silent, narcissistic tirade, the turtle was alerted to the presence of boots stampeding across the tile. The sound of men dropping to their knees and brandishing firearms brought a faint smile the reptile’s cobalt visage.

“Hello, gentlemen,” the Pokémon Chieftain spoke, his eyes still glued on the massive tower across the block from his current location. “I’m surprised that you managed to react to all the commotion I caused when I ransacked this structure. Hell…that was at least a good half-hour ago. I can’t believe you people are getting so sloppy lately.”

“Shut the hell up and put your hands above your head, asshole!” One of the officers yelled, punctuating his order soon thereafter by pumping his shotgun. A smile spread across Wartortle’s visage as he slowly turned around to face the group of policemen.

“A SWAT team?” The insurrectionist asked, eying up the large degree of body armor and equipment that the men adorned. “I’m actually a little impressed at the type of men this city will expend just for me to have a little target practice with, so how do you guys wish to die?” Wartortle asked as he flexed his clawed digits and glared at the men with an eager eye.

“On the ground,” the same man threatened, thrusting his gun toward the anarchist. Without so much as a warning, the Pokémon suddenly regurgitated a jet of foam from his mouth—shocking the men enough so that their target could vanish into a line of cubicles. A hail of gunfire tore through the window in front of which the turtle had been positioned but a moment prior.

Almost as soon as the foam fell apart, the SWAT members ceased their fire and stood off the ground. As they moved to pursue Wartortle, the aforementioned turtle fell through the ceiling above their head and opened fire upon the group of men with both of his machine guns. In a matter of seconds, the “skilled” officers were reduced to shattered, bullet-ridden corpses saturated in blood.

Everything is ready, Chieftain. Kadabra conveyed telepathically. Should I give the teams the go-ahead?

“Yes,” Wartortle commanded, walking over to the shattered window and glaring hatefully at the structure. The Turtle Pokémon reached his hand toward the structure and clenched his fist as the first of the explosive salvos in its basement detonated. Flames gushed up from the streets as the foundation of the building buckled beneath the searing heat.

Manhole covers exploded upward as geysers of fire erupted from the street and claimed the lives of pedestrians and cars located nearby. Wartortle’s eyes widened as a shockwave erupted up the tower—rupturing the building’s structural integrity and shattering the glass windows as it traveled upward. By this point, screams and the sound of car alarms had filled the streets, but before much action could be taken by the victims in the street, the building buckled one final time.

In a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, Wartortle watched as the building collapsed into itself—smoke and steel exploded outward as the massive structure crumbled downward in a perfectly symmetrical fashion. The compression of air emitted a dense cloud of dry wall, glass, and pulverized fragments of steel and the numerous appliances within the massive office building. A barrier of water sprung up around the turtle as a means to shield him from the subsequent smog.

An almost orgasmic sensation of glee rippled across the revolutionary’s form as the building he was in became consumed by the enormous dust clouds that radiated forth as the one hundred and ten story structure collapsed. Even though the act itself was only about twelve seconds in duration, the demise of the Capitol Building would resonate throughout time and history. Wartortle would be surprised if the events of the day outlived him and his future dynasty.

“The time is coming,” the turtle spoke, his voice slightly distorted by the water that blanketed his body. Without lingering any more in the structurally unsound building, the Pokémon dashed out of the small structure and chuckled as it caved in following his departure. The cobalt reptile paused after his fingers wrenched away the nearest manhole. Wartortle glanced over his shoulders and squinted through the heavy, almost noxious cloud in an effort to get one final look at his handiwork.

“Wow that’s sexy,” the amphibious tyrant chuckled; his eyes remained glued on ground zero for a handful of seconds. Once he had his fill of the erotic scene of death and chaos, he vanished into the sewers.
 
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Hela

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The Girls
"No," Hela groaned into the phone. "I said four to six weeks. She's very sick." The woman paused to listen and almost immediately started rolling her eyes. "I'm sure the people at Syntech are 'very' trustworthy, but I wasn't about to let them poke around in her brain or her insides.... Mhm. Yes... No! Do not release those henchmen for vacation! They're barely done any work, have you seen the gardens? ... Hello? Hello!"

With a scowl, Hela spiked the phone back onto its receiver. The entire endtable collapsed into a mishmash of broken plastic as a nurse poked her head into the room.

"Everything okay, Ma'am?" She asked with a tense smile that betrayed just how terrified she was of the woman who had murdered six of her colleagues over the last three weeks.

"Never let you dog be its own dogsitter," Hela replied as she rubbed at her temples for a few moments. "Just the absolute worst..."

"C-can I do anything for you?" She asked as she glanced at a half-consciousness Azula. "She's been trending very well for the last week or so."

Hela nodded her head before narrowing her eyes at the nurse. For a moment, she contemplated interrogating the woman on just what metrics she was using to make that assumption (or perhaps what they were doing with the girl when visitors weren't allowed), but she changed her mind when the woman gestured to the book she was reading.

"Is that the Syntech fable about the turtle?" She muttered sheepishly.

"Yes," Hela sneered. "The child likes it. The violence and foul language just lifts here spirits so."

"I think there's a sequel," the nurse mumbled. "Do you want me to see if we can order a copy for you and your daughter? She'll be here a while longer."

Hela grinned. "Lovely," she replied before shooing the nurse away and turning to look at the barely consciousness teenager. Just a few hours ago, Azula had been alert and raving about being fine. They had even gotten her up out of bed to do some physical therapy, but the girl had gotten so frustrated she wound up burning four members of the medical staff before being sedated.

"Teenagers," the queen whispered as she cracked open the book. "Good think that nurse wants to keep her life, Zuzu, because this is the last chapter."

Chapter 7: Liberation

The hour of judgment was upon them: It was two minutes to midnight on the Doomsday Clock.

Wartortle stood upon a rusted dumpster, his eyes squinted so he could see through the buckets of rain pouring from the sky. From the way the weather was behaving, it was if the heavens themselves were being torn asunder by the chaos that had consumed Vermillion City in the wake of the bombing. In only a matter of two days, the pandemonium resulting from the destruction of the Capitol Building had reduced the once peaceful community to a spawning pool for panic, confusion, and anarchy.

“My brethren!” Wartortle screamed, with voice louder than any of the explosions of thunder echoing high above the heads of the collected crowd. “The hour of our destiny is upon us!” The Pokémon added, hoisting his dual weapons into the night sky. The powerful words and the display of fervor elicited a chorus of screams and roars of delight from the crowd of anxious soldiers.

“The Homo sapiens have kept us under their thumb for far too many generations, and with the destruction we shall wrought on this night, we will show them that their dominion over us has long since crumbled!” Wartortle bellowed—the fury emblazoned across his visage illuminated as a bolt of lightning tore across the heavens. “Tonight we will march across this forsaken city and slaughter its inhabitants.

“I don’t want any of you to stop until every last man, woman, and child has been bled to the last drop!” The turtle seethed, the veins in his neck bulged as adrenaline surged through every fiber of his existence. “When the sun rises in the morning, I want Pokémon to be the only ones in Vermillion who bear witness to its glory. We have come too far and sacrificed too much to allow ourselves anything less than complete and absolute victory!

“By the end of this night, my comrades, we will have forever become the stuff of legends! Those around the globe shall tremble when they hear our names and tell their children politically misconstrued ghost stories about our deeds. Tonight will echo throughout the annals of time as the beginning of humanity’s unraveling, but it shall also resound with one other event…the liberation of our race!” Wartortle paused as the applause and cheering overpowered his ability to project his voice. With a smirk upon his face, the reptilian insurrectionist wiped the rain from his brow and continued.

“For every human life you snuff out tonight, we are one step closer to true liberation. Tonight we will conquer, and through our actions tonight, we shall become immortalized! March into the night and kill, my fellow Pokémon! Though we may only be a hundred strong, our brethren are waiting out there to join our ranks. They need only the sign and for us to set them free. Now march into the night and sate your appetite with the flesh of the tyrants!” Wartortle cried—thrusting his hands forth as the crowd in front of him exploded into a frenzy.

Like a primitive fireworks display, a myriad of the elements was let loss into the night sky—punctuating the Turtle Pokémon’s impassioned dissertation. A moment transpired, and then the crowd exploded outward as the agents of the Pokémon Liberation Front dispersed to begin their purification of Vermillion City’s Homo sapiens infestation. From his position above the street, Wartortle began to cackle as his lanky form was illuminated by the lightning overhead.

Descending from his makeshift lectern, the Pokémon Chieftain checked the condition of his weapons one last time. When he deduced that there were no discernable flukes, the amphibious revolutionary slammed a new clip into each of his automatic rifles. With a bob of the head to no one in particular, Wartortle began down a nearby street. The reptile had only made it a handful of yards when he felt a powerful hand fall upon his armored shoulder.

A split-second after he felt the touch, the Pokémon pivoted and lined up the barrels of both his weapons with his visitor’s abdomen. Taking a few precautionary steps away from the goliath, Wartortle lifted his head up to see a very familiar visage—Machamp. The scarred, silent warrior drop to a knee in front of his indigo leader, and with an uncharacteristically stoic grunt, the Superpower Pokémon puffed out his chest.

Although there were no words exchanged, Wartortle understood everything that needed to be comprehended. With a smirk upon his face, the Chieftain extended his bony hand toward the knelling soldier and helped him off the saturated stone of the alleyway. Nodding their heads in unison, the two brothers-in-arms turned their attention to the scene unfolding a few yards down the passageway.

“I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit!” A human screamed, his tone of voice erratic as he tried to pry open the door of a vehicle parked near the terminus of the alley. “This entire place is going to hell, and I’m not going to be caught by those terrorists without any means of protecting myself,” the man added as he feverously tried to break into the car.

Hugging the wall of the dark passage, Wartortle slowly advanced toward the two Homo sapiens. Once he got close enough, the Pokémon was able to deduce that one of the hominids was attempting to break into a police cruiser for the potential weaponry stashed within its locked doors. Unlike his vandal of a comrade, the other primate was nervously scanning the empty street for signs of life.

“I really don’t like this,” the frightened human whispered. Despite his best efforts to conceal his voice, Wartortle was close enough at this point to hear every angst-laden syllable. “What if we get arrested?”

“There is no such thing as ‘law’ in this city,” the first human uttered, trying to kick through the reinforced glass window with the sole of his boot. “When the Capitol Building fell, all semblances of order went up in flames along with that structure. Now it’s either kill or be killed, and I’d much rather choose—”

“Be killed!” Wartortle punctuated, stepping out from the shadows and proceeding to tear apart the man’s chest with a hail of machinegun bullets. With a scream, the remaining human watched as his dying friend collapsed onto the damp asphalt and was wrought by a progression of death spasms. Before he had a chance to fully react to the development, the second primate was torn in two by the overgrown Machamp.

Hoisting the two halves of the corpse into the raining night sky, the Superpower Pokémon proceeded to hurl them through the wall of a nearby convenience store. Without taking so much as a nanosecond to stop, Machamp went on to pluck the police cruiser off the road. After exerting a few seconds to crush the vehicle, the titan sent it rolling down the vacated street like a bowling ball of twisted steel.

Wartortle sneered as the smashed cruiser rolled into the night. Even though he was elated by the destruction, the Tiny Turtle knew that it was going to take a lot more to exterminate the pests that had infested Vermillion. With a smile upon his indigo visage, the Pokémon holstered his machineguns behind his shoulders and motioned for Machamp to draw closer to him.

“I want you to travel to the industrial district just south of here and slaughter the staff at the power plant. After we take down that plant, there won’t be any power for this entire city. Once you succeed with your goal, I want you to rendezvous with Gamma Squad on Main Street. Do you understand?” Wartortle inquired, glancing up at the emotionless countenance of the superpowered soldier. With a humble bob of his crested cranium, Machamp broke into a sprint down the street.

The Turtle Pokémon watched as the juggernaut vanished into the fog. After a few more beats, Wartortle turned around and started to his own objective: Lieutenant Surge. Out of the entire city, it was Surge who most symbolized everything that the Chieftain loathed. The lieutenant reigned over Vermillion as its “Gym Leader”—someone who kidnapped and subsequently brainwashed Pokémon into being their slaves for the sake of public posterity.

“I will end that idiot’s reign,” Wartortle rasped beneath his breath as he trudged through the puddles of rainwater that had accumulated on the road. “This city will be mine! The turtle screamed as a bolt of lightning illuminated the sky behind his manic visage. Once the flash of light faded, Wartortle drew his weapons once more and began his campaign once more. The Vermillion City Gym was only a block or so away, and the though of his encroaching destiny was making the Turtle Pokémon absolutely giddy.

***

Kadabra stood amid the chaos of what was once a productive city block. Since the beginning of the fighting, the majority of the nearby houses had been torn asunder amidst the crossfire of the local police forces and the Pokémon Liberation Front. Chunks of asphalt and pipelines had been unearthed in the struggle, and even after an hour or so of fighting, no clear winner had emerged.

“Kadabra!” A Pokémon nearby yelled, his erratic tone quickly catching the attention of Wartortle’s lieutenant. Standing still, Kadabra watched as a fatigued Scyther limped his way over to his location.

“What is it?” Kadabra inquired, his feet leaving the ground as he moved forth to intercept his injured comrade. The bipedal insect let out a sigh as he tumbled forward into the outstretched arms of his commanding officer.

“Another wave of humans is arriving from the south. They are about forty strong and seem to all be civilian in nature. If we don’t do something to prevent them from hitting our backside, we’re going to get overwhelmed if the policemen and SWAT decide to try another charge on our location,” Scyther rasped, his voice labored as he fought to stand on his own. Kadabra nodded his head in acknowledgment of the Mantis Pokémon’s report.

Setting the injured soldier within the relative safety of a crudely established tent, the psychic levitated his way through the camp to the rear of the camp. Even though the area was shielded by a stack of demolished houses and cars, it would have been simple for a small pocket of enemy soldiers to sneak in relatively unseen. Closing his eyes, Kadabra projected his mind forth across the makeshift barrier.

On the other side of the mountain of steel and stone, a translucent Kadabra slowly phased into existence. Flexing the joints of his projected form, the Psi Pokémon narrowed his eyes—triggering the monsoon of rain before him to part. With his view unobstructed by the precipitation, the lieutenant was able to spot the encroaching hominids. Like a gadfly to a horse, the peasants were not going to capitulate until they were completely and utterly exterminated.

Gathering his bearings, the projection of Kadabra glided toward the lynch mob of primates. Even as the first bullets began to fly, the Psi Pokémon kept his unwavering stoicism. Stretching forth his ethereal appendages, the lieutenant closed his eyes and listened as the front walls of two nearby buildings were torn away by the psychic’s capabilities. Opening his eyes, Kadabra took a moment to stare in awe at the free-floating walls of brick and glass.

“Die!” The Psi Pokémon bellowed, slapping his hands together with the utmost avarice. The two sections of wall, guided by the motion of their puppeteer, slammed together and crushed the two columns of marching peasants.

Unfortunately for Kadabra, he had failed to exterminate all their lives. With a labored cry, a lone man dashed forth from the layer of dust and debris. Before the man had a chance to strike down the ethereal psychic with his pitchfork, his skull was popped off by his intended target. As the peasant toppled over, the projection of the Psi Pokémon let out a fatigued sigh and phased out of existence.

Back behind the provisional blockade, a gasp escaped the throat of Kadabra as his mind returned to his physical form. Although he had been successful in terminating the immediate threat, the psychic understood that victory had not come at a price. With a quavering digit, the Psi Pokémon traced the handful of bullet wounds that adorned his chest. It was a flaw in his ability to project his existence…a flaw that was most aggravating for the lieutenant.

“We can’t keep this up,” Kadabra rasped, his voice labored as the wounds began to take their tool upon him.

***

With a sturdy kick, Wartortle obliterated the front door to the Vermillion City Gym and infiltrated the silent building. Once inside, the Turtle Pokémon scanned the nearby wall for a means of illuminating the amphitheater-sized room. Letting out a soft laugh, the amphibious superstar flipped a switch mounted next to the door. A few stories above his head, a series of fluorescent lights hummed to life.

The introduction of light into the room revealed the presence of half a dozen armed trainers standing a few yards away from Wartortle’s position. From behind the line of humans, Lieutenant Surge stood with an arrogant grin look plastered upon his tanned countenance. Cracking his neck, the Gym Leader drew his own firearm and motioned for his subordinates to ready their weapons.

“Checkmate,” Surge cackled, and with a smile, he pulled the trigger.

Wartortle’s eyes widened in horror as the bullet exploded toward his bald cranium. With so little time to react, all the Turtle Pokémon managed to do was topple over like an awkward buffoon. Landing on his posterior, the reptilian rebel let out a sigh as the bullet whizzed overhead and slammed into the wall. Unfortunately for the momentarily beleaguered Wartortle, the lieutenant and his lackeys were unwilling to give him even a second’s reprieve.

“Kill him now!” Surge bellowed, throwing his free hand forward like a conductor leading a symphony. On the whim of their sensei, the trainers opened fire upon the archrival of humanity.

Swearing beneath his breath, Wartortle threw his weight to his one side—meriting him enough momentum to roll behind the relative safety of a wide, marble column. Once behind the cylindrical shaft, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front began to formulate some means of survival as he tried to quickly draw fresh air into his lungs. As Wartortle attempted to lay the groundwork for a suitable plan, his adversaries fell silent.

With a heavy sigh, the turtle braced himself as the next wave of gunfire began to gnaw away at his cover. Realizing that he had to act soon if he intended to survive, Wartortle reached behind his back and yanked his machineguns from their twin holsters. As he gripped onto the cold, heartless steel, the Pokémon felt his confidence return in waves. Holding the guns close to his chest, the amphibious insurrectionist closed his eyes and began to bide his time until his foes had to reload.

Once the ear-splitting echo of machinegun fire died down, Wartortle’s eyes shot open. Time drew to a crawl as the man-sized turtle took those first steps toward his destiny. Lowering the guns to his sides, the chieftain of Pokémon pulled the triggers and opened his mouth—a ghastly, murderous guffaw tearing into the atmosphere a heartbeat later. A scream broke out among the enemy ranks as the trainers dove to the wayside.

The lull in time slowly lost its grasp upon the scene, and as its dominion faded, the bullets came faster and louder until there was no semblance of the moment existing in the first place. With the dreamlike effect gone, things took a turn from the sluggish to the dynamic. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, Wartortle arched his stream of bullets and caught on the Vermillion trainers in the leg as he was trying to crawl behind an overturned portion of the gym’s synthetic environment.

With one of the hominids temporarily dispatched, Wartortle turned his attention to the next viable target, but instead of opportunity, he was greeted with a fresh volley of bullets. Lunging to the wayside, the amphibious revolutionary vanished behind an I-beam and crouched as the enemy’s gunfire tore apart the linoleum floor just a few inches from his previous location.

A heartbeat later, the rest of the trainers went on the offensive as well, and Wartortle found himself running out of available options: The only nearby obstacle was a couple of yards away. Leaning out from behind the beam, the Pokémon squinted through the ill-light chamber and tried to scope out the locations of his shooters. Fortunately for the soldiers of Surge, one of them happened to be close enough to spot the turtle’s exact location.

With his target in the center of his crosshairs, the fortunate trainer depressed the trigger of his gun. The sound of the bullet blasting forth from the barrel of the rifle was noted almost immediately by the fur-covered ears of the Turtle Pokémon, but the window of opportunity for evasion had already withered.

“Fuck!” Wartortle yelled as he shifted toward the direction of the bullet out of instinct. The wet sound of hot lead punching through skin and tissue echoed through the gym as the lanky body of the Pokémon Chieftain was thrown to the cold, tiled floor of the cavernous structure.

***

“Fallback you sons of bitches!” The foreman shrieked, desperately waving his hands toward the reinforced doors. From behind him, the unsettling resonance of steel being dented inward grew louder as the wall of the plant began to buckle beneath the force. As the foreman vanished behind a pair of steel doors, the stalwart military soldiers garrisoned in the power plant braced themselves for whatever was behind the dense wall.

“Tank?” One of the soldiers whispered to a comrade, his M16 shaking in his grasp as he tried to keep his eyes trained upon the compromised wall. After a moment of silence, the wall was shaken once more by the awesome might of whatever stood on the other side. The viciousness caused the mousy soldier to wince slightly—it was obvious by this point to the soldiers that fate had abandoned them long ago.

“We can hope it’s only that,” a soldier uttered beneath hoarse breath. The remark elicited a fabricated smirk from a few of the other militiamen, but before someone had a chance to comment, the wall was struck for the final time. With an unholy wailing, the steel was torn apart as a hulking, gray abomination pushed its way through the four-foot wall.

***

“God damn it,” Wartortle choked, dragging the rest of his body behind a small, artificial hill near the bank of a stream running through the posterior section of the gym. Uttering an unending stream of ‘fuck’s beneath his breath, the turtle dropped one of his M16s and pressed down on his lovely little wound. Although the bullet had missed all the major targets, it had still managed to reduce the reptile to an agonized little bitch…a state that Wartortle abhorred.

“I tagged him!” The trainer scream—his voice about ten feet away by now. The Pokémon Chieftain scoffed at the arrogance in the primate’s voice. In fact, it made Wartortle positively disgusted that he had inadvertently brought such happiness to the undeserving bastard.

“Go in for the kill!” Another of the trainers screamed in a voice gleeful enough to put a giddy schoolboy to shame. Eying the firearm still hatefully clenched within his indigo fingers; the turtle flashed it a smile that even Judas in hell could have been proud of. Removing his other hand from the scene of the wound, Wartortle flipped the seemingly miniscule switch on the side of his weapon and listened intently as the footsteps drew closer.

“He’s right behind that mound of stone,” a third trainer whispered. The announcement of the information was accompanied by the subsequent clicking of fresh clips into the ingrates’ rifles. Just as Wartortle could almost smell the foul stench of their fetid breath upon his back, he sprung forth from the ashes.

“Die!” The Turtle Pokémon boomed, depressing the trigger of his rifle with an ensanguined digit. The trainers returned the display, but none of them anticipated what had transpired. In a vibrant display of heat and light, the forty-millimeter grenade shell detonated—taking with it the lives of the three overly eager trainers.

Although they had been dispatched of effortlessly, a few bullets managed to strike Wartortle in the center of his dull yellow plastron. The impact knocked the wind from the revolutionary’s lungs, but any lasting damage was otherwise prevented by the turtle’s dense scutes. Slipping down onto his knees to avoid the fallout of the surprise attack, the Pokémon Chieftain collected his other rifle.

“Four down,” the reptile rasped, checking the condition of his weapons as he contemplated his next maneuver.

Without so much as a moment’s warning, the three surviving primates opened fire upon Wartortle. Grunting in frustration, the Turtle Pokémon cleared his thoughts and tried to pinpoint the source of the gunfire using his advanced hearing. After a moment or two, he was able to determine that he was being shot at from three completely different locations. The amphibious superstar let out a deep sigh as he attempted to calculate his odds of actually hitting someone.

“Fuck it,” the Turtle said after a second or so, and with a scowl upon his indigo countenance, Wartortle vaulted off the ground. Turning in the direction of the first shooter, the Pokémon fired off a series of bullets and quickly dropped to the ground before he was hit. A delightful scream rang through the chamber a moment later, and with a smile, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front leaped back to a standing position.

Narrowing his eyes in the direction of his second target, Wartortle fired off another rapid succession of machinegun bursts. From the far wall of the gym, there was a faint grunt as a sixth body collapsed to the linoleum floor.

***

“Take down that water tower!” Kadabra bellowed, thrusting one of his pointed digits toward the rickety, steel containment tower looming over the city block. The Psi Pokémon had been isolated from the main column of soldiers by a surprised attack from the human forces. With the bulk of his troops battling a few streets away, Kadabra was stranded with only a handful of warriors at his disposal. Even worse, a squad of policemen was advancing upon his location.

“I’ll take care of that one,” a Graveler boomed, flexing all four of his stony arms as he plucked a nearby motorcycle from the sidewalk. As Kadabra watched with anxiety, the Rock Pokémon twirled around and launched the vehicle up toward the aged tower. With a sickening crunch, the propelled motorcycle obliterated two of the four support beams that kept the utility standing tall.

With no structural integrity to speak of, the old water tower began to squeal as gravity took its toll upon the remaining support structure. Eying the encroaching mob of police officers, Kadabra motioned for the other members of his small detachment to huddle around him as the water tower broke away from the building above them. Gritting his teeth, the psychic threw his hands up and closed his eyes as a dome of white light hummed to life around the small group.

A chorus of screams filled the street as the deluge of water from the ruined tower flooded over the barrier and slammed into the mob of primates. Unable to stand firm against the tidal wave, the policemen were washed away into the waters of oblivion. Unfortunately for Kadabra, the destruction of the lynch mob meant nothing in the long run. A handful of meters away, the symphony of gunfire and explosions was deep in the midst of a crescendo.

“Make haste back to the battlefield, comrades!” Kadabra shouted as the barrier faded from existence. “We must not lose Wabash to the enemy!” The psychic added, gliding quickly across the dampened asphalt.

***

“It’s over, Wartortle,” Lieutenant Surge cackled, leaning out from behind a column to punctuate the insult with a few bullets. The magnum rounds careened to the wayside, but the shrapnel that resulted from their rendezvous with the stone wall managed to irritate the Pokémon’s flesh.

“Fuck you,” the chieftain retorted—firing a grenade from behind the safety of his own marble column. The high-powered shell slammed into a fabricated stone on the other side of the gym, but aside from a wicked explosion, there had been nothing accomplished. Laughing loudly, Surge opened his mouth to berate his opponent, but his attempt at banter was cut short when the muzzle of an M16 found its mark upon his chin.

Though initially taken aback by the surprise assault, the former army officer managed to regain his composure just as he was about to hit the ground. With a grunt, Surge rolled backwards and swung his firearm up toward his adversary. Wartortle, standing a few feet away with both of his weapons trained upon the brow of the lieutenant, smirked as he pulled the trigger.

Click…click. The sound in and of itself was enough to shatter the most adamant of egos. For Wartortle, it meant the one fatal mistake that he knew had been looming somewhere upon the horizon. The silence pervaded as both parties took a moment to dwell upon what had transpired, and then, with an almost gleeful laugh, Surge pulled the trigger of his handgun and sent a bullet rocketing into Wartortle’s chest.

***

“Hold the line!” Kadabra ordered, ducking a moment later to avoid a wayward shotgun blast. Lifting his head back up, the Psi Pokémon observed as the humans prepared for another charge. Most of the Homo sapiens were armed with mêlée weapons, but there was still the looming threat of those individuals armed with riot shields and shotguns. The bodies of the injured and dead that littered the ground around Kadabra were more than enough proof that the armored humans were a cardinal threat.

With a sigh, the psychic receded back behind the makeshift shields. If the battle was to be won, then it was imperative that the enemies be pushed back toward their point of origin. Although the battle raged elsewhere, it was Main Street that would be the definitive battleground. Unfortunately for Kadabra, the humans were also aware of the avenue’s importance.

“Hit the deck!” A sentry screamed, and not even a nanosecond later, a mortar shell struck the middle of the street and exploded.

***

Wartortle let out a vibrant scream as he collapsed against the cold wall of the Vermillion City Gym. A small pillar of smoke wafted up from the bullet wound on the right side of the turtle’s chest. Although nothing vital had been compromised, the reptilian rebel had taken a potent blow regardless. Heaving as he laboriously fought to stand, Wartortle lifted his eyes to meet Surges.

Despite the severity of the injury, there was still a crimson glow to the Pokémon’s glare. From the intensity, it was as if all the fires of Hell itself had blazed to life within the eyes of the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front. Unfortunately for the cornered lion, Surge was the one with the loaded gun, and the smug smile upon his tanned visage displayed that point rather effortlessly.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Lieutenant Surge hissed, lifting the gun from his side as he made a blatant effort to savor the moment. “But I’m afraid this is the end of things,” the ex-militant added, but just as he was about to pull the trigger, the lights above the two rivals’ heads sputtered. The flickering continued for a few additional seconds, and then the room was cast into blackness.

With Surge momentarily preoccupied with the death of the city’s power, Wartortle vaulted off the cold wall and tackled the army brute. The lieutenant let out a pained grunt as his body struck the unforgiving marble floor, but even though he was caught off guard, Surge managed to shove the man-sized turtle off him. In the struggle, the hominid has lost his gun and as he hustled to locate it, he heard a snicker from a few feet away.

“Looking for this, jackass?” Wartortle guffawed as he unloaded the weapon upon the fallen former commando. Screaming in pain, Surge scrambled out of the way even as the first bullet tore through his side. The lieutenant continued to hug the ground as he crawled his way across the floor of his personal dominion.

Once the weapon ran out of ammunition, Wartortle heaved it across the chamber and turned his attention to locating his wounded adversary. Suddenly, a door opened on the far wall of the room, and with that as his only lead, the Pokémon hobbled toward his opponent. After wrenching the door open, the turtle squinted to see in the darkness, but once his vision adjusted enough to see the stairs, he began his ascent.

A few stories up, Lieutenant Surge tumbled through the emergency exit and let out a groan as the humid air hit his fatigued body. On the horizon, the first signs of daylight were becoming evident even as the war within the city limits showed no indication of stopping. From across town, a giant tower of black smog laced the skyline where the once grand power plant used to stand. Surge, who was now more than ten stories above the streets, let out a sigh as he made his way toward the fire escape on the other end of the building.

“Not so fast!” A haggard, hateful voice screamed. Turning around, Lieutenant Surge watched as a bloodied Wartortle limped from the black depths of the stairwell. The chieftain clenched his ensanguined fingers as he advanced toward the equally battered Gym Leader. “We’re not finished yet, you prick!”

“Think you can take me, Baby?” Surge scoffed, lifting his fists up to his face. “I didn’t risk my life on the frontlines for three years just so some mutant freak could take me,” the ex-militant continued, his eyes twitching as he spoke—an indication of the underlying weakness and fatigue that was haunting Surge’s body.

“Shut the fuck up and fight,” Wartortle rasped, sliding into a generic fighter’s stance.

There were no more guns. No more witty retorts and idle banter. Just two rivals with their lives and fate on the line. One of them was going to give, and with them, an entire species would be shaken to its core.

Although Vermillion had spent the greater part of the week subjugated to nature’s wrath, the presence of the sun breaking through the black clouds seemed to be a clear indication that the tropical storm was losing its strength. Despite the serenity, the city itself was far from tranquility, and even as dawn continued to unfold, the destruction remained relentless.

High above the heads of the troopers and citizens, the two superstars of the conflict exchanged blows as their personal confrontation began toward its zenith. Ducking beneath a punch aimed too far to the right, Wartortle kicked off the gravel roof and slammed his fist into Surge’s exposed neck. Flesh was carved away by the impact of the blow, but the adrenaline coursing through the lieutenant’s veins granted him the fortitude to return the favor in spades.

Coughing up saliva as he reeled away from the ex-militant, Wartortle took a moment to catch his breath before going back onto the offensive. Unfortunately for the turtle, the successful counterattack and subsequent reprieve had given his opponent just the window of time he needed to parry the Pokémon’s attacks. With an almost brutal elegance, Lieutenant Surge batted Wartortle’s clawed fists to the wayside and swung his left combat boot up into the reptile’s abdomen.

Gritting his teeth as a coping mechanism, the reptilian revolutionary threw his face forward and fired a stream of water into his aggressor’s countenance. The measure caught the lieutenant off guard—sending him stumbling backwards as his hands batted madly at the viscous fluid impeding his senses.

***

“He’s alive!” Pikachu screamed, flailing his limbs for attention as his eyes remained trained on the crumbled body lying beneath the twisted steel. In less than a few seconds, the rodent was joined by a group of his comrades. The Pokémon dropped to their knees and were quick to excavate the rubble that had collapsed upon the valiant warrior. Once a path had been forged through the debris, a Graveler moved forward and retrieved the bloodied figure.

“How goes the battle?” Kadabra wheezed, opening his eyes as he turned his dirtied visage toward Pikachu.

“We’ve managed to press back the hominids and secure the street; however, they have returned with artillery. We are also but a dozen strong in this region against fifty humans due to the partitioning of our forces throughout the city limits. Unless we can break their fortifications, we will be withered away by the unrelenting attacks,” Pikachu replied, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the barricade.

“Gather the masses,” Kadabra coughed, levitating from the arms of the Graveler and glaring hatefully toward the human ranks. “It is time that we show them our tenacity and willpower. Even if we are predestined to falter, we must not allow ourselves do nothing but sit here and cower as they bombard us to death!” The inspiring words brought a cheer from the group of Pokémon, and a moment later, Kadabra led the charge across the ravaged stretch of asphalt.

***

Wartortle struck the gravel-covered roof of the gym with a resounding thud. A few feet away, Surge stood panting with his fist still hoisted into the air. With a labored sigh, the fallen Pokémon wiped the trail of blood away from his chin and pushed his body away from the unforgiving layer of tar and gravel.

“Time to say goodnight,” Surge snarled as he bent over and reached toward the back of one of his boots. A smile spread across the ex-militants bloodied countenance as his hand emerged from the back of his leg with a short knife in tow. With an almost giddy titter, the gym leader brought the knife up to his face and expended a moment just to stare at his reflection upon its glossy surface.

In an act fueled by instinct alone, Wartortle pushed himself onto his back and summoned up all the water he could muster. As Surge hobbled toward him, the reptilian insurrectionist opened his bruised maw and unleashed a jet of high-powered fluid toward the lieutenant’s hand. The impact served as a large enough shock to send the stout blade clean from the grimy grip of the former army officer. Kicking off the ground, Wartortle lurched toward the momentarily astonished ex-militant.

Wartortle let out a primal scream as he tackled Surge back down to the gravel-encrusted rooftop. The two rivals rolled across the surface of the roof as they traded blows and hateful glares. Rays of sunlight were creeping across the scene of the battle as the two drew closer to the edge of the structure. Despite the impending danger, neither party was willing to turn their attention for a split-second for fear of making that one final, fatal mistake.

Thrusting his legs up violently, Wartortle managed to knock the ex-militant off his chest. Using the window of opportunity to his advantage, the Water Pokémon scrambled across the rooftop and scooped up Surge’s boot knife. With the blade now in his possession, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front turned his bruised, indigo countenance back toward his opponent.

Flashing a bloody grin, Lieutenant Surge motioned for the man-sized reptile to continue with the offensive. Compelled with his desire to fulfill the hominid’s request, Wartortle clenched his teeth and charged toward the former military officer. Feigning to the left as he advanced upon the motionless ex-militant, the reptile let out an incoherent grunt and swung the blade toward his foe’s ribcage.

Unfortunately for Wartortle, Surge emerged as the more prepared combatant, and with swift motion, he once again managed to disarm the turtle. Instead of breaking off the attack, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front let out an almost serpentine hiss and swiped his clawed fingers across the already mangled visage of his adversary.

The rapid counterattack triggered the lieutenant to pull away from the confrontation, and with that show of weakness, Wartortle continued his assault. Despite his augmented intelligence, the Water Pokémon had failed to notice the arrogant smirk that Surge wore upon his countenance.

The knife, clenched between the ex-militant’s fingers, gleamed in the morning sun as it was swung up into Wartortle’s abdomen. Punching through an already splintered portion of the turtle’s plastron, the blade tore its way through layer after layer of tissue until the side of Surge’s hand hit the surface of his nemesis’ skin. The leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front let out a groan, and his head fell forward a moment later.

“Face it,” Lieutenant Surge coughed, leaning forward until his lips were almost touching the indigo flesh of the reptile’s downward facing cranium. “You’ve been bested, Baby,” the former military officer added, using his free hand to prop up Wartortle’s head by the chin. Instead of pain, agony, or suffering, Surge’s arrogance was met with the unquenchable fires of the Pokémon Chieftain’s hatred.

“Fuck you!” Wartortle rasped, and with a brutal fluidity, the reptilian insurrectionist buried his left hand, clawed phalanxes and all, into the side of his gloating rival. Surge clenched his teeth and twisted the knife—trying his hardest the entire time to swallow down the scream welling up within his trachea. Wartortle returned the favor by drilling his hand into the primate’s side.

***

“Remain stalwart!” Kadabra boomed above the roar of the enemy’s fire. The squad of Pokémon broke apart as the bombardments intensified. Moving forward, the psychic threw up a barrier as he glided toward the enemy entrenchments. To the left of the Psi Pokémon, an artillery shell struck the ground and sent one of his comrades hurling into oblivion.

Charging forward, the Graveler who had helped saved the life of his lieutenant a few minutes prior dove into the wall of a crude machinegun nest. As Kadabra watched in horror, the Rock Pokémon’s body erupted into a vibrant display of energy. The shockwave rippled outward—obliterating the mass of humans as they scattered to the winds.

The display of everlasting fortitude spurred the martyr’s comrades forth as they dove headfirst into the mass of primates. An explosion tore through the streets as the humans drew their barbaric weaponry and assaulted the freedom fighters. Leading the last-ditch offensive, Kadabra pushed through the enemy ranks with the utmost brutality. Limbs and flesh were torn asunder as the Psi Pokémon released the raw power bottled within his form.

From the opposite side of the human encampment, a mighty explosion tore apart the street and sent pillars of fire toward the perpetually brightening skyline. Although Kadabra and his troopers could not see the new arrivals, the psychic could sense the new arrivals mentally. With a deafening roar, Machamp hurled another military truck through the enemy’s camp. Behind the bloodied, beleaguered superpowered, a group of about a hundred Pokémon had amassed.

“Kill them all!” Kadabra screamed, thrusting his trademark spoon toward the panicking hominids. The Psi Pokémon went to move forward but was stalled when a bright light sprang to life around the spoon. Traveling rapidly down his arm, the light engulfed the psychic in a matter of seconds. There was moment of silence, and then the energy ballooned outward, capturing the attention of everyone on the field in the process.

When the vivid lights faded, Kadabra was no longer himself. Gone were the wide tail and the cryptic, psychic markings that had once adorned the Pokémon’s abdomen and forehead. The formerly crude, organic armor worn by Kadabra was now sleek, polished, and refined. Kneepads and bracers had been added to the Psi Pokémon’s golden figure, and in both of his hands, he clenched two bent spoons.

Tilting back his visage, the newly evolved psychic closed his eyes and smiled. The movement of his facial muscles caused his overextended mustache to waft slightly. Without so much as a moment’s warning, the ground around the evolved psychic was torn apart by unseen forces. Chunks of asphalt, concrete, and demolished houses levitated around the Psi Pokémon’s lanky form. The lull pervaded for a few more beats, and then the psychic’s eyes shot open.

“Alakazam!” The Pokémon shouted, and with that utterance of his name, the entire span of Main Street was engulfed in a vibrant, blinding explosion.

***

Even if neither of them could best the other in mêlée combat, it seemed as if both of them were prepared to die as long as it meant the other would be joining them in the fires of Hell. Despite their best intentions, the brutal contest of fortitude was ended the moment that Vermillion was shaken to its core by an explosion vastly superior to any manmade bomb.

Although the source of the blast was almost half a mile from the scene of the clash, the sonic boom that resulted contained enough power to pluck both Lieutenant Surge and Wartortle of the ground and hurl them across the graveled rooftop. With twin grunts, the two rivals crashed down onto the bed of stone—the expressions upon their visages a clear indication of the impeding conclusion to their bout. Despite the seemingly mortal injuries that both the stalwart warriors had obtained, adrenaline propelled them to their feet.

Glancing out at the epicenter of the blast, Wartortle watched on as the mushroom cloud billowed upward. The dense smog masked the rising sun and sent a veil of darkness over a greater portion of the metropolis. Buildings crumbled around the source of the explosion, and as Surge and Wartortle looked on in horror, the earth began to fissure out from the core of the destruction.

One of the fractures in particular snaked its way through streets and buildings before finally terminating right beneath the feet of the two combatants. Almost instantaneously, the Vermillion Gym began to shudder and wheeze as it struggled to stand against the incredulous odds. Up on the rooftop of the building, the eyes of the two rivals met from across the sea of gravel that had served as their battlefield.

The moment lingered as thoughts raced through the individuals’ brains, and then, without an utterance of single syllable, the two started limping toward the access to the stairwell. Wartortle gritted his teeth and used one of his hands to cover his stab wound as he lurched his way toward salvation. It may have only been a few yards from their positions, but to the beleaguered opponents, the door felt like it was an eternity off.

From beneath the rivals’ feet, the building let out a final, desperate sigh and began to buckle. The layers of steel, tar, and gravel that formed the rooftop crumbled into the abyss that had torn through the gym. Wartortle began to swear beneath his haggard breath as he stumbled toward his only escape. A few feet away, the ex-militant known as Lieutenant Surge hobbled along as well, but neither of them was able to escape the collapsing surface.

Yelling out, Wartortle closed his eyes as the roof fell out underneath him, but instead of a lethal freefall, the turtle was shocked to realize he had been standing upon a support beam that had at least temporally maintained its integrity. The Water Pokémon, still partially admonished by what had transpired, glanced over and realized that Surge had met the same miraculous circumstance.

For a moment, the lieutenant wore the same shocked look upon his face, but once he realized Wartortle was still alive, his momentary glee turned sour in a heartbeat. Still trying to balance upon beams which could collapse at a moment’s whim, the two adversaries searched for a means to get at the other. It took them only a few seconds to spot the beam connecting their locations, and with a speed ignorant of the dangers of their situation, they quickly met above the dark abyss.

Surge, with the boot knife clasped between his fingers, swung at the neck of the reptile. Wartortle teetered backwards but managed to recover his poise long enough to violently smack his right palm against the hand with which the lieutenant wielded his weapon. As the two watched in silence, the knife soared from the former army officer’s hand and plunged into the ill-light abyss that was once Vermillion Gym.

Turning their heads back to one another, the combatants laced their bloodied, busted fingers and threw all of their strength into a last-ditch effort to emerge victorious. Even from the onset of the final tie-up, it was Lieutenant Surge who appeared to have the upper hand. Despite the injuries that he had attained, the ex-militant’s harden physique still had the edge over Wartortle’s lean physical construction.

“It’s been great,” Surge grunted, pressing his arms forward and smirking as Wartortle was slowly forced to bend backwards at the most awkward of angles. The eyes of the Turtle Pokémon widened as his equilibrium slowly began to crumble.

“Fuck…” the Pokémon Chieftain began, gritting his teeth as he struggled against the ludicrous odds. Then, much to the dismay of the arrogant primate, the corners of the turtle’s lips curved up into a smirk. “You!” Wartortle spat, discharging a stream of water along with the hate-laced remark.

The jet of fluid hit home—striking the back of the lieutenant’s open maw. The hominid’s body convulsed as he began to choke on the viscous liquid. Unable to maintain his composure, Lieutenant Surge’s grip loosened to the extent where Wartortle was able to regain his balance.

With the advantage now is his field, the Water Pokémon let go of one of his nemesis’ hands. Pulling Surge toward him by the other hand, Wartortle buried his stubby claws into the lieutenant’s surprised, bewildered eyes. Almost immediately, the rest of the man’s already fleeting strength left him. After twisting the tips of his fingers deeper into his opponent’s eye sockets to ensure his success, the reptilian revolution tore his indigo digits from Surge’s skull.

His mouth still agape in horror, the corpse of Vermillion’s Gym Leader fell away from Wartortle. The turtle glared into the bloody sockets as they vanished into the fissure that had torn the earth asunder. As the Water Pokémon watched his vanquished foe plunge into his eternal grave, the support beams that had supported the former building squealed once and then collapsed inward.

Wartortle, grinning slightly at the irony of the situation, exhaled as his legs gave out underneath him. The side of the reptile’s face hit the beam he had been standing upon just as part of it broke away from the rest of the support structure. Like a wayward vine, the steel shaft managed to swing across the length of the chasm before its other end snapped as well.

The Turtle Pokémon—unable to exert the effort to act in the situation—was hurled like a rag doll into a pile of debris by the forces of momentum. Landing near the rim of the fissure, Wartortle let out another sigh. Although he could no longer muster the strength to stand, it didn’t matter…because Surge was dead.

With the destruction of him and his accursed gym, the Pokémon Liberation Front had achieved what many media outlets viewed as impossible—domination. Even without visual verification, Wartortle knew that his comrades had not failed in their goals. If they had been unable to purge the humans, then the turtle’s battle with Surge would not have been so uninterrupted.

“Soon,” Wartortle wheezed, clenching his bloodied, dirtied left hand into a fist as he addressed no one in particular. “All the civilizations of man will burn…” with that remark, the victorious insurrectionist lost consciousness.

***

Wartortle had no idea how long he remained unconscious, but when he finally awoke, he quickly realized that he had been moved from the remains of the gym. From the rows of lights passing over his head, the turtle was able to deduce that he was lying on some form of stretcher and being pushed down an illuminated hallway. To the Pokémon Chieftain, that meant one very important fact: Wartortle’s forces had been victorious.

“He’s regaining consciousness,” someone yelled as the reptile’s clarity returned to him. With a groan, the Water Pokémon planted his arms on the sides of the momentarily halted gurney and pushed his torso into an upright position. Wartortle let out a pained cough as he flexed his achy arms and attempted to shake off the antagonizing pain that was running rampant through his cranium.

“Where am I?” The reptile finally responded, glancing over his shoulder at the small group of Chansey who had flocked to his position. Although his mind was still reeling in agony, Wartortle could deduce from the red crosses that he was undoubtedly within some type of medical facility.

“You are in a hospital, Chieftain,” one of the medics debriefed, bobbing her head in a show of respect toward her injured leader. “A squadron found you lying in the ruins of this city’s Gym about twenty minutes ago in a state of unconsciousness. The field medics could only patch you up so much, so they transported you here for additional treatment.”

“I’m fine, comrade,” Wartortle decreed as he grit his teeth and slid off the metallic gurney a breath later to prove his point. The Turtle Pokémon, standing triumphant despite the bandages and bruises that adorned his body, smirked faintly and quickly began to contemplate his next maneuver. “How goes the siege?” The leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front inquired, turning to face on of the ivory-skinned medics.

“For the most part, victory has been declared over the human scourge,” the Chansey answered. “Last we were informed; battalions were being dispatched to deal with the remaining pockets of resistance.”

“The majority of the army has amassed outside this structure waiting for some type of news about your health, Chieftain,” a second Chansey added, smiling warmly at the battle-scarred turtle.

“I shall address the masses,” Wartortle replied—a fire surging to life within his beleaguered form as he clenched his mangled fists and began to grin from ear-to-ear. “I trust that one of you shall be present in order to relay my dissertation to the wounded?” The Pokémon Chieftain inquired; his eyes more focused on the end of the hallway than the group of medical staff.

“Of course!” One of the Chansey resounded with a surplus of enthusiasm. With a nod, the medic’s beloved leader acknowledged her and motioned her in the direction of the exit.

“The rest of you are dismissed,” Wartortle uttered, extending one of his bruised hands and subsequently shaking the hands of the three other Egg Pokémon. Once the final pleasantries were over, the group dissolved—its membership fragmenting in order to complete their personal objectives.

“This way leads to the front exit,” the remaining Chansey uttered, motioning down the hallway to give her leader a clearer idea of their destination. With a nod, Wartortle began down the ivory hallway. The padded flesh of the turtle’s feet clicked softly upon the marble floor as the pair of Pokémon slowly made their way out of the hospital.

Much to the surprise of a very slow, fatigued Wartortle, the walk only took a little over a minute. As he crossed the expansive lobby, the turtle caught his first view of the massive quantity of Pokémon who had assembled in wait of his discharge from the medical facility. The silent roar of the casual conversation outside Vermillion City’s hospital fell dead nearly the same instant that the crowd heard the front doors of the massive structure open.

“Comrades,” Wartortle uttered—his voice hoarse as he projected it across the tidal wave of Pokémon crammed into the decorated square in front of the hospital. The Turtle Pokémon smiled widely as he tried to estimate the size of the population in front of him. What had once begun as the pairing of Wartortle and Kadabra had swelled to numbers that easily topped the one thousand mark.

Despite the engorged numbers, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front knew that they did not come without a cost. Even though the sun hung high above the crowds’ heads, the skyline itself was choked with thick, black clouds. Fires that had been raging the night before were still burning strongly, and the majority of the streets had been either uprooted or completely torn apart by the earthquake half an hour earlier.

None of it mattered to Wartortle or his Pokémon followers—the infrastructure that the Homo sapiens had erected would be torn down regardless. With a smirk upon his face and a feeling of euphoria in his gut, the reptile raised his head as high as he could and stared out into the teeming crowd of his victorious legions.

“Today marks a monumental day in the history of our species,” Wartortle boomed. Despite the underlying notion of pain conveyed in his words, the turtle’s rhetoric was nonetheless stronger and more passionate than ever. If anything, his condition served as a living emblem of the struggles and hardships that the conglomerate before him had just experienced. “Our human oppressors lie dead at our feet!” The Turtle Pokémon howled, thrusting his bandaged hands toward the heavens.

A roar of applause and adoration cascaded across the assemblage as the victorious revolutionaries celebrated their victory; however, Wartortle, with a motion of his right hand, triggered the crowd to fall silent. With a hearty sigh, the reptile took a few steps toward the crowd before leaning upon an ornate column that supported the hospitals awning.

“Today we start a new chapter in the history of our species. From this day forth, this city—formerly infected with the evil of the Homo sapiens—shall serve as the hub of free Pokémon everywhere. The first day of May shall resonate forever through the annals of history as the day in which we shall celebrate the exodus of Pokémon everywhere from the curse of disunity and disintegration.

“United as one, we shall give birth to a nation autonomous of the human tyrants that rule the surrounding regions. Whether they like it or not, we shall claim this plot of earth as our own, and from it, a powerful nation of Pokémon will arise to purge the Earth of the plague of Homo sapiens. I christen this new entity ‘Kanto’, and the battered land upon which we stand will serve as its capital—Antioch.

“In the coming days, the majority of these accursed giants of steel and glass must be torn down. They represent the evils of the enemy we seek to purge, and because of this, they must be sundered. The pavement and macadam that mankind has used to suffocate the ground must be uprooted in order to begin the healing process. The only structure that we shall keep will be those with true purpose: Schools, hospitals, and storage facilities.”

“What will we do with the rubble, Chieftain?” A Pokémon yelled from the middle of the crowd. Wartortle turned in the general direction of the voice and flashed a warm smile before answering the inquiry.

“The steel, stone, and other materials acquired from the deindustrializing of our fair city will be used to forge a mighty war machine. With such an expansive pool of materials useless to the construction of our society, we will be able to craft a titanic military capable of destroying any who may stand in our way!” The remark spurred another massive wave of applause to resound throughout the makeshift meeting area.

“Make no haste, comrades!” Wartortle resounded, shaking one of his hands toward the morning sky. “For we are the bane of humanity, and from henceforth, we shall never rest until they are eradicated! Once the last reports of the purging come in, I want everyone to begin with the repair and deconstruction of this city. After we have cleansed this city of humanity’s filth, we shall begin to plant new flora and construct our own simple abodes. I thank all of you for being part of our species’ Independence Day, but rest assure that the fighting is not over.

“What we have set in motion today will resonate onward countless generations, and it shall be alive long after we are nothing more than bones or ashes. With every breath you take, I want you to never forget what has happened today. Never forget your brethren that perished in this city fighting for the security of you and your progeny. While the odds are most certainly against us, we are not alone in our conflicts. Our fallen allies will be with us forever—in our hearts and in our spirits…

“You are all dismissed to begin the work that lies ahead of us. Feel free to celebrate and revel in our victory, but do not forget your workload,” with that, Wartortle bowed humbly and walked back into the hospital as the crowd applauded and roared their approval. Once inside the building, the Turtle Pokémon let out a heavy sigh, clenched his side, and sat down on a nearby bench. A few feet away, a battered Alakazam stood with a grin upon his visage.

“Victory,” the recently evolved Psi Pokémon smiled.

“We still have quite a road ahead of us, my ascended friend,” Wartortle replied, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd that was dispersing. “A long and hellish road awaits all of us…”

Epilogue

I am God. This fact has made itself evident to me these last few months. It is enforced upon me with every cheer I receive from a soldier and every affectionate smile I get from those that pass me by on the streets. While I’m sure many others in my position would brush aside these thoughts in order to make themselves feel morally superior, I embrace each and every single one of them.

I have earned each and every bit of love, worship, and praise that I am given by my people. Just as the symbiotic relationships in nature, we are like two autonomous entities living off and upon one another in utter harmony. From me, they are given a semblance of worth and security from the horrors of the tyrannical Homo sapiens. In return, they have elevated me to the status of demigod in our society.

I can’t say I really blame them for what they have done—I earned this. My species has existed long before the rise of mankind, and not once over the course of twenty-four centuries has any other Pokémon managed to do what I have done. Sure…there have been several attempts throughout history mirroring my crusade. Unfortunately for those involved, they lacked the tenacity and valor necessary for victory.

On the other hand, they were mere peons compared to me. None of them were ever destroyed by their adversaries only to rise from the grave three days later. It was from that night on that I understood how capable I was of achieving my goals. While I am surrounded by epitomes of psychic and physical powers, it is I who reign supreme, with them as my underlings. I do this not through superior strength or powers, but through my ability to unite and drive people.

While I am the first of my species to do such a thing, I cannot attest to being the first in history to so effortlessly mobilize a beleaguered people into greatness. There have been many a dictator and political leader who came before me who managed such a feat. Germany and Russia were gifted with such genius in the earlier part of the previous century. Rome had such a man born into its society over a millennium ago, and with the recent transmogrification of this planet, it seems that Midgard has such a figure currently.

What makes me greater than those fools is that I am infallible, and above that, I lead a species superior to that of mankind. Those men and the societies they forged were subject to the fatal (albeit sometimes a gradual process) poison of human weakness. After a while, their grandeur was made fallible by the fickle nature of the very people they created. The history textbooks that humans read will never tell you the real story, but in the end, those geniuses were betrayed by their own people.

Those political leaders, upon turning their followers into capable and hearty members of society, were struck down by the human nature of those persons. Whether it was through their failures in war or through the deceitful, untrusting nature of man, those patron saints of humanity were felled. Although I harbor hatred for mankind for what he has done to my species, I will not deny the fact that I wish those men were born instead as Pokémon.

Their genius would have advanced the liberation of my kind by leaps and bounds. Regardless of my whimsy aspirations and closeted admiration for those Homo sapiens, they are my inferiors. No matter how big their impact on human history, I am greater than Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Even Julius Caesar is unworthy of holding a candle to me. Even though he has emerged from the abyss to destroy mankind, I consider myself in a class apart from Smithy and his race of metal creatures.

Pokémon as a species are not filled with the need to petty over insignificant happenstances, and on average, we do not harbor a thirst for power like the Homo sapiens. While this makes us superior to them on many scales, I fear it was this fact that led to our gradually enslavement by mankind.

Unlike mankind, with his various belief systems and political structures, we as Pokémon have none of that unnecessary bullshit. There is but one Chief of State for Pokémon—Me. There is but one eternal God in our society and in our hearts—Me. Underneath my banner, a great people are rising up from a history of abuse and enslavement, and we shall not capitulate until the last of mankind has been snuffed out of existence.

I implore all those who read this book to spread its message far and wide to every single Pokémon who is unaware. Tell them that the time has finally come for them to live without fear of being captured and turned into mindless slaves for the sake of contests. Tell them the time has come for them to live in a world where their children will never have to be told horror stories about Pokéballs and ‘Pokémon Trainers.’

We enter a new age from whence Pokémon shall emerge the dominant species or burn the world to ashes with them. Although man’s numbers have fallen due to their war with the metal invaders, they are still out there plaguing our brethren or even using them to defend themselves against Smithy. The hominids must all be destroyed if we ever hope for a world where Pokémon can live freely.

I implore all of you, comrades, to give my cause wings. Be the wind that fuels my fire and be the water that nourishes the new nation of our species. And to all of you Pokémon who are out there living in the wild, scared, and fearful for the security of you and your children, I have but one simple message: Rebel.

Seek my followers and me out here at Antioch. Join our fight. It is your birthright to unite with me and destroy humanity.

You have nothing to lose but you fear.
 
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Hela

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The Girls
“It’s just three more steps, and you’re telling me you can’t do it?” Hela punctuated the question by casually rolling her eyes as she took a small drink from the bottle in her hand. “The mighty Zuzu, and she can’t even walk over a little wooden bridge?”

Azula, who found herself halfway across an elevated walkway that was part of her physical therapy, clenched down on the railing as she turned her eyes to Hela. “I hate you.”

“There’s that word again,” Hela groaned. “I’m not the one who broke all your limbs, Sweetheart. That one’s on you.”

“You could have just left me at the Syntech labs like everyone else!” She barked as sweat dripped down the sides of the teenager’s head. After two weeks of what was dubbed as a more intensive physical therapy, the princess was having breakdowns like this on a semi-regular basis.

“Oh, please, Azula,” Hela sighed. “Don’t make another scene.”

“This is your fault.”

Hela groaned as an image flashed in her head of her drop kicking the snarling little adolescent out the nearby window. Could she get enough momentum to kick her all the way off the little island and into the sea below? The queen shook her head and put her smile back on. “I wasn’t going to just leave you there with that man and his doctors, Azula.”

“He can literally reshape reality,” she rasped as she took another staggering step. “And you turned down his technology so I could what? Suffer for your amusement.”

Hela rolled her eyes once again. “And trust Karl Jak not to implant you with some explosives? Or put some chip in your brain that’ll turn you into a Syntech sleeper agent? Come now, Dear, you’re supposed to be the paranoid one in this family.”

“Shut. Up!” Azula seethed. “Once I’m better, I am going to smack those eyes out of your skull.”

The queen chuckled. “That’s the burning spirit, Dear. You’ll need some more of that for when we get you healthy again.”

“We?!” Azula grumbled as she tried to take another step and found she lacked the strength. At this point, Hela couldn’t tell if that was sweat or genuine tears on the girl’s face. “You have done nothing but sit there, insult me, and read your books.”

“Emotional support, Zuzu,” Hela laughed as the slightest inkling of concern spread across the Asgardian’s flawless visage. “Unless you’d rather have the dog? I don’t think they’d let her into a hospital, though.”

Azula’s jaw muscles were clenched too tightly to let her speak, but the young woman managed to take another step. After about a week of failing, the possibility of success was [ijust[/i] within her strong-willed (and soon to be indominable) grasp.

“Maybe you should catch your breath?” Hela muttered as she saw Azula trying to will herself forward once again.

“No,” Azula replied in a voice that was suddenly without much of its vigor. The girl’s face was pale, and while she wasn’t a doctor, Hela had seen that look on plenty of faces—it was usually followed by someone face-planting on the ground. “I will… finish this infernal…” Azula’s foot touched down at the end of the platform, and a moment later, the other touched down next to it.

Hela actually found herself popping up out of the seat, but before she could say anything, she saw Azula’s half-closed eyes crush shut as she fell forward.

In a burst of speed, the queen caught Azula before she cracked her skull on the ground. “Breath,” Hela muttered as Azula’s eyes fluttered a bit and her chest heaved erratically. Without really paying much attention to it, Hela had brushed the damp hair from Azula’s forehead and found herself patting the adolescent gently on the back.

“I’m fine,” Azula grumbled as she weakly tried to swat away Hela’s arm from her face.

“Of course,” Hela replied as she helped Azula up to her feet and then summoned the wheelchair.

“I can walk back to my room.”

Hela laughed, but it was a soft chuckle, rather than a haughty cackle. “Don’t push yourself, or you’ll just have to do more of this.”

In response, Azula let herself be lowered into the chair, and the two started back toward her room. Once they were back and the princess was in her bed, she glanced over one last time at Hela. “Well? Isn’t this the part where you read your stupid story?” She muttered before rolling onto her other side, away from a now grinning woman.

“If you insist.”

“I don’t!” Azula muttered, but it was clear to anyone within earshot that she was feigning the outrage.

Now to begin the ultimate experiment of completing another 13-year-old story arc. Everything after this point is new writing, so I hope anyone still reading at this point enjoys, lol. I’m trying to write out complete ‘chapters’ before posting, but even if I manage to do that, I don’t think I’ll jump back to Hela and Zuzu again until the end (if I get there).

Thanks and enjoy <3

Chapter 1: No Prayer for the Dying

P
rivate Jonathan Stevens had never asked to be garrisoned at Mill Creek’s outpost. Hell…if things would have gone his way, he would have left the planet a few months ago. Unfortunately for Private Stevens, all his careful planning and calculations had gone horribly awry, because here he was—hundreds of miles from friends and family on the frontline.

“Stevens!” The gruff voice of the youth’s superior snapped him away from his midday daze. Pushing away from the muddy slab of dirt and stone he had been sleeping against for the last few days, Jonathan turned his attention to his right side in an effect to locate the source of the voice. Clutching his rifle to his chest, Private Stevens ducked low and scanned the muddy trench. After a moment or so, his eyes picked out the extended hand of his sergeant from among the helmeted heads that filled the relatively cramped scar in the earth.

“Sergeant Sanders!” The private shouted as he shuffled his way down the earthen line toward his commanding officer. Once he made it through the bulk of nervous soldiers, Jonathan was ushered through a cramped tunnel into a reinforced room below about six feet of dirt and wire. As he moved down into a seat, the private glanced around the room and noticed that he was one of about four men.

“I need your assistance, Stevens,” the sergeant responded, shifting uncomfortably as he tried in vain to mask his nervousness. After a brief pause, Sergeant Sanders reached over to one of his subordinates and received a small leather-bound tube. With a grim expression on his face, the middle-aged army officer handed the parcel to the private and cleared his throat.

“What’s this?” Jonathan asked, rolling the cold, leather tube in his dirtied palm as he toyed with the knot that kept it tightly sealed.

“Please don’t open it,” Sergeant Sanders requested, placing his hand on top of the container. “These are intelligence reports that need to be delivered back to Saint Guinevere. Without the information in these documents, the capitol and the rest of this province will be bulldozed over by Wartortle and his legions.”

“Why me?” Stevens inquired, holding the leather tube to his chest as he stared at the three officers positioned in front of him.

“You’re the best up-and-comer we have in our battalion, Private,” the sergeant responded, glancing at the two corporals standing to each of his sides for a nod of confirmation before continuing his explanation. “It’s no secret that you don’t want to be here, Stevens, but Johnson, Jackson, and I feel like you’ve done an amazing job coping with the situation here. If things had gone down any other way, you would have been promoted, but unfortunately for the fifty of us, we got stationed at Mill Creek.”

At that moment, the poorly light underground room was shaken by the force of a nearby explosion. Before Private Stevens had a chance to react to the situation, the few lamps they kept the room illuminated were snuffed out as the first volley of gunfire tore apart the once anxious silence that saturated the Mill Creek valley. With a gasp, Jonathan was thrown from the chair as the unreliable ceiling above his head quivered beneath another bomb.

“Get your ass out of her pronto, Private!” The sarge screamed from the darkness as the ceiling began to crumble. Acting quickly, the private shoved the leather tube into his vest and shouldered his rifle. After a moment of hesitation, he ducked his head and jumped towards the small shaft of light penetrating into the dark chamber. A second later, he stumbled into the damp trench to find his entire battalion scrambling to stave off their attackers.

From a few feet behind Jonathan, a jet of dirt and fire knocked him into the mud wall as the meeting room fell into itself. Liberating himself from the sloppy earthen surface, the private scurried up the trench to where a few of his brothers-in-arms were hiding behind a reinforced wall. Wiping the mud from his eyes, the young soldier glanced through the small slit in the barricade in an effort to see the force that was bombarding the trench.

“It’s the Warlord,” one of the infantrymen replied, ducking back below the barrier as a gust of flames blazed a few feet overhead. Stuffing his binoculars into one of his vest pockets, the soldier readied his rifle and turned his attention to Jonathan. “We got about forty seconds max before their infantry line plows right through us.”

“Any idea what the army is comprised of?” Private Stevens asked as he glanced to and fro in a desperate attempt to locate the rest of his brigade while they scrambled for cover from the intense shelling.

“From what I could tell, it’s Wartortle’s usual combination of shock-, fire-, and avalanche-based melee troops. I think I saw a few flyers, but it was too foggy to tell for sure. The ‘torbers are beyond the scope of these binoculars, but I wouldn’t put it past Wartortle to have them right behind the frontline,” the infantryman replied, shouldering his rifle before sliding it through the small slit in the concrete wall.

“Number of soldiers?” Jonathan inquired as another of his comrades climbed his way up out of the trench and took a position at a nearby amalgamation of steel bars and crude, concrete slabs.

“Too many…” the man muttered, placing a hand on his chest as he looked toward the ashen sky for salvation.

Without another moment’s delay, a well-aimed explosive shell (also known as a Voltorb) struck the barricade and reduced it to rubble. Losing his vision and hearing amidst the blast, Jonathan felt himself falling back into the wet darkness of the trench as the first of the Pokémon began to punch their way through the ragtag defensive of the Mill Creak Outpost.

Bullets whizzed passed Private Stevens as he hugged his rifle and dove behind a chunk of metal. Just as his feet had vanished behind the impromptu border, a jet of fire scorched the earth to his immediate left. Once the embers fizzled out, Jonathan swung out around the blockade and fired a quick burst of bullets into the gut and abdomen of the nearby Charmander.

“Watch out!” Turning his head in the direction of the voice, Jonathan watched as one of his comrades intercepted a dense bolt of electricity that had been intended for him. As the poor man’s innards were charred into oblivion, the private quickly fell back toward the trench and dove behind a small mound of dirt and stone to conceal his location. After taking a few seconds to catch his breath, he proceeded to reload his weapon and reassess the situation.

***​

Hundreds of miles from Mill Creek, a group of seven robed individuals made slowly trudged their way through several feet of snow and ice. A thousand feet above their benumbed bodies, a small black dot stood out among the blizzards. Although they had lost half their ranks in the past week, it was only a matter of time before they had the prize. Everything else was immaterial in pursuit of it.

With a piercing howl, a gust of wind struck the group—staggering all of them but the leader with its fury. As his followers stumbled and struggled to protect themselves against the elements, the robed figure at the front of the party came to a halt. As the wind knocked the hood from his head, the blue-skinned reptile simply grinned in the face of the subzero wind-chill. Twitching his fur-covered ears, the bipedal turtle reached behind his head and pulled his hood back over his cranium.

“Soon,” the Pokémon muttered, resuming his march toward the mountain’s summit. “Your secrets will be mine.”

***​

In the span of twelve minutes, the outpost had fallen to Wartortle’s Forces, and with the utmost desperation, the surviving ten soldiers were scampering toward the creek. At their helm, Jonathan Stevens led the way—keeping his head low and his feet fast as the sound of innumerable footsteps closed in on the group.

“To the water!” The desperate private shouted, waving his free hand toward the darkness in front of the panicked soldiers. “We can try and lose them in the creek!”

“We won’t make it!” A voice screamed from the blackness behind Stevens. “There are too many of—” the man was silenced as a vibrant explosion illuminated the night sky. Although he was a few yards ahead of the group, Jonathan could still feel the scorching heat sting at his back as it reduced his comrades to ashen scars on the earth’s surface. Unwilling to turn around, the private reached inside his vest and ran a trembling finger across the leather tube.

“I can’t fail them,” he muttered as another mortar shell struck the ground about a dozen yards to his left. Closing his eyes as a few pounds of uprooted earth slammed into him, Jonathan Stevens reached into a different pocket and pulled out the last grenade on his person. Holstering his rifle on his back, the private came to a screeching halt and drove his left boot into the earth.

As he pivoted, the soldier yanked the pin from the grenade and hurled it at the closest reptilian visage. The grenade soared through the air, but then the impossible occurred—it began to slow down until it froze in midair. Glancing around, Jonathan noticed that nothing was moving around him. It was as if someone had pressed the pause button on the entire battlefield.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” A relaxed, female voice inquired.

“What is this?” Jonathan shouted, yanking his rifle off his back and gritting his teeth. From the ranks of Pokémon in front of him, a robed figured pushed its way through the unmoving monstrosities. “Who the hell are you?” The panicked soldier demanded, resting his twitching finger on the trigger of his gun.

“You can go ahead and try to shoot me,” the figure said, lifting a pair of gloved hands and pushing back the black hood to reveal a young, female face. “But I honestly doubt it’ll be that effective.”

“You never answered my question,” Jonathan stated, his hands still firmly gripping his assault rifle.

“My name is Maria,” the woman answered, smiling faintly at the weary soldier. “I’ve come here to warn you of things to pass.”

“Why?” Jonathan asked, relaxing his stance as he tried to process the words of the mysterious woman.

“I am a demigod,” the woman replied. “Right now, I am hundreds of miles away at the roof of the world. In a matter of time, the doors of my temple will be torn asunder, and I shall be struck down by the lord of your enemies.”

“Wartortle?” Jonathan stammered, his eyes filling with rage and avarice.

“He shall soon come for me,” Maria stated. “But before he has the chance, I shall impart unto you part of what he seeks.”

“That being?” The private inquired, arching a dirtied eyebrow at the enigmatic words of the strange woman.

“My essence,” Maria answered, smiling as she took a step forward and placed her hand upon Jonathan’s chest. A moment later, a strange burst of energy exploded through the private’s body. The man’s eyes widened as the feeling slowly started to subside, but before he could ask a question, the demigod raised her hand to silence him. “Good luck, Jonathan Stevens. Now I’d run if I were you.”

“Why?” The soldier asked, furrowing his brow as the woman lifted her hand. With a snap of her fingers, time once again to pass and he was hurled into the depths of the nearby river. Maria smiled faintly as she faded from sight amid all the chaos and upheaval of stone and earth.

***​

With a smile, Wartortle began to ascend the massive staircase that led up to the temple at the peak of the mountain. Behind him, the six members of his elite guard wore similar expressions upon their haggard visages. After nearly a week of travel, the realization that they were mere footsteps from their target brought grins to their numb faces. At the helm of the group, the amphibious dictator reached the massive, icy doors to the temple.

“Our prize, gentlemen!” He roared, brandishing his M-16 and pointing it at the ancient door. “Out of my way,” he snickered, backing up a few steps from the door. With a crazed cackle, the cerulean superstar pulled the trigger—sending a forty-millimeter shell spiraling toward the venerable barrier. In a fiery deluge of smoke and splinters, the ancient door caved under the fury of modern technology, and before the fires had even cleared, Wartortle moved forward and stepped over the burning threshold.

Inside the temple doors, the reptile was surprised to find that the air felt relatively fresh. After all, he had spent the last few days under the assumption that he’d be barging into some ugly, dank place that smelled like mothballs. But lo and behold, the temple was illuminated by about a dozen sconces that were suspended from the overly tall ceiling. Near the center of the temple, a single woman stood in front of a large statue of some bizarre god with several arms.

“Hey there,” Wartortle said, switching the safety of his machinegun back to the ‘off’ position. “Ready to die, bitch?” He inquired, pushing back the hood of his cloak with one of his hands.

“You know so little,” the oracle replied, slowly turning around to face the lynch mob. “So consumed by your headstrong aspirations…you know nothing of what is to come, little one.”

“I do know something of what is to come,” Wartortle snickered, the corners of his lipless mouth curling up into a hateful sneer. The remark caused the demigod to raise one of her shaped, trimmed eyebrows.

“What is that, oh belligerent one?” She inquired, pushing back the hood of her white cloak to reveal her humanoid face.

“That I’m going to fucking kill, you stupid cunt,” Wartortle shouted, lifting the first of his machineguns and unleashing a stream of death upon the cloaked deity. With a gasp, she dove to the wayside, tucking her legs in as she rolled to avoid the shards of stone blown free from the statue by the bullets.

For ages, the mountaintop temple had been a quiet place of meditation. Since its construction centuries ago, the small structure had housed generations of monks and other Shaolin warriors. They had all worship and paid their respects to the goddess Shiva, the Hindu mythological figure for whom the earthly temple had been built. Although the monks had since relocated, the steward of the temple had stayed—a silent, loving oracle.

Despite being by all means a derelict, the humble building was nevertheless of great importance to both the local community and the Hindu faith. Both the state and local governments were well known to put forth hundreds of dollars a year to help fund the annual trips that high schools from all overpaid to the humble structure. Even as it passed into decay, those who knew of its existence respected the temple and its mysterious goddess as being overly important to the local history.

Unfortunately for the demigod Maria and her lovely temple, Wartortle didn’t give a fuck about history. With a manic scream, the amphibious superstar sprayed the entire building with machinegun bullets—watching in sadist delight as the age-old architecture shattered and exploded under the fury of his boomstick. What brought a greater smile to his cyan visage, however, was the slender woman trying her hardest just to succeed in only narrowly evading the hundreds of rounds vying for her internal organs.

“What’s the matter, bitch?” Wartortle cackled as he reloaded his gun. “I didn’t think you divine types got winded.” Maria, who had since shed her large cloak to reveal the toga-like garment that she wore underneath, went to reply to the remark, but she was forced back on the move by the renewed gunfire. In a half-circle behind the reptilian overlord, his elite guard stood motionless—their faces devoid of emotions as they waited for instructions from their beloved leader.

Click, click, click… The hated noise reverberated through the crumbling walls of the temple. With a frustrated sigh, Wartortle lowered his weapon and glanced over his should at the sextet of soldiers.

“What are you waiting for?” He barked, causing the group to salute him instinctively. “Go shank her!” On that note, the cadre sprung forward—their bodies melted and shifting as they took a new form. By the time they had encircled the oracle, they had altered their appearances so they would just like their intended prey.

Wartortle couldn’t help it; he loved the ability of Ditto to replicate the appearance and capabilities of their opponents. Sure, they weren’t the strongest or smartest of his legion (those titles belong to Machamp and Alakazam, respectively), but they amused him enough that he used them as his elite guard, whilst the other more specialized Pokémon served more important purposes in his army.

An explosion from the center of the temple tore Wartortle away from his thoughts. Glancing over at the scene of the battle, he was slightly amused to see that the oracle was not without her fair share of surprises. With the utmost finesse, she wielded the powers of fire and lightning, using them to effortlessly bat around the turtle’s best grunts like they were mere children. Noting this, Wartortle let out an aggravated sigh and reached to his belt for another clip.

Just as the demigod had sent the sixth member of the Ditto squad hurtling across the temple amidst a flash of heat and energy, her superhuman ears alerted her to the clicking of the Pokémon’s clip into his rifle. Turning instantly, she flashed Wartortle a heavy frown and hurtled a burst of the two elements toward him. Uttering a very audible ‘fuck’ under his breath, the reptile dove to the wayside—executing a rather acrobatic barrel roll before settling into a crouched position.

Drawing the other member of his machinegun pair, the Pokémon revolutionary glared at his celestial adversary and opened fire, his eyes lighting up with an unholy fury as he squeezed the triggers. With a grace befitting a god, Maria leapt into the air, her body pivoting in midair to avoid the spray of leaden death. The turtle Pokémon let out an exasperated sigh as he lowered his guns once more.

“You know,” Wartortle said, chuckling softly as he mulled over his thoughts a little more before continuing. “If you’d just lie down and die, I promise not to burn this entire mountainside and build a giant statue of myself out of your house here.”

“Your shallow threats and immature banter are of no effect against me,” the timeless woman replied, sighing lightly as she brushed some dirt of her otherwise immaculate dress.

“Fine then” Wartortle spat, leveling his machineguns with her skull. “Don’t cry when I skull fuck you then, bitch,” a heartbeat later, the fanatical reptile unloaded on the woman once more—his eyes narrowing as he tried to tag her amid all her irritating acrobatics. After about ten seconds, the turtle’s guns clicked empty, and Maria took that opportunity to douse him with a rather painful and electrified burst of flames.

Staggered by the surge of electricity, Wartortle could do little more than drop his guns and stumble backwards—his eyes squeezed tight as he tried to fight through the searing pain. When the pain subsided after a few agonizing seconds, the aquamarine revolutionary opened his eyes to see a flame-wreathed demigod staring him dead in the face. There was a seemingly uncharacteristic grin on Maria’s face…a grin of victory.

“What’s a little reptile without his guns?” She asked, leaning backwards to awe at the disarmed turtle. Wartortle sneered hatefully, his breathing haggard as he placed a hand underneath his cloak, as if to comfort a wounded hip.

“Who says I’m disarmed, you dumb cunt?” On that note, the Turtle Pokémon wrenched his hand free from his cloak, bringing with it single shot pocket pistol. The demigod’s eyes widened as the tiny, antique gun was pressed against her forehead, but despite all of her augmented abilities, there wasn’t enough time to prevent the inevitable. “Bang,” Wartortle snickered, pulling the trigger and laughing as the high caliber round ripped through the previously unsullied flesh of the oracle.

In an instance, the majority of the flames around the woman were snuffed out, reduced to tiny pillars of smoke that wafted up from the corpse as a puddle of blood began to pool around Maria’s skull. The Pokémon spent a few minutes staring at the woman’s wide-eyed corpse before holstering the pistol and letting out what can best be described as a post-orgasmic sigh. Reaching into his cloak, Wartortle produced a large cigar that he light with one of the small fires still burning harmlessly on the flesh of the demigod.

“Fucking cunt,” the cyan reptile reiterated after taking a long drag from the cigar. With another self-satisfied cackle, he stepped over the corpse and collected his machineguns from the ground. “Now where’s my prize at?” He mused, glancing around the crumbling, defiled temple. After a moment, he holstered his machineguns and turned back to the woman’s corpse.

“Perhaps someone hid it away in the yummy, candy center.” He laughed as he produced a small knife from his belt. Behind him, his scattered squad of Dittos had collected themselves and returned to the form they utilized when traveling with Wartortle (that of one of their fellow Pokémon, Hitmonchan). “Too bad none of you can turn into a radio or something,” the warlord snickered as he plunged his dagger through the woman’s chest.

As the blade plunged through the silky material of the woman’s dress and into her chest, a strange smile of satisfaction spread across Wartortle’s cyan countenance. Unfortunately for the reptilian revolutionary, his grin melted away as the corpse began to tremble and twitch. With a bloodcurdling scream, the formerly motionless body shuddered one final time before collapsing back into the blackness of oblivion.

In that final death throw, however, an upsurge of energy went crackling through the knife and into the body of the unsuspecting Pokémon. A few seconds later, there was a rather impressive explosion that sent the turtle slamming into the statue at the center of the room. As Wartortle’s squad watched, their illustrious leader was buried beneath the rubble that the statue had been reduced to amidst the impact.

“What happened?” One of the Dittos inquired—his mouth a gapping circle as he took a step toward the pile of concrete and stone. Before the loyal follower had a chance to examine the situation, a beam of light erupted from the epicenter of the statue’s remains. The pillar of energy rocketed upward, slamming through the dilapidated roof of the structure and screaming toward the heavens that lie above the mountaintop.

Instantly, the massive chunks of rubble fell apart, separating into nothingness as a glowing Wartortle rose from the fissured floor of the temple. A scream escaped the lips of Pokémon Warlord as he lifted his manic eyes toward the sky. Lifting his hands, the turtle clenched his three-fingered hands into tight fists as the hue of his flesh began to darken. In the blink of an eye, the heavy cloak that the turtle wore vaporized as it was torn into fibers and scattered to the winds.

Trembling in raw fury, the insurrectionist dropped to his knees—his fists striking the ground with enough force to splinter the dense concrete. With a series of sickening cracks, bones underneath the surface of his flesh began to grow and shift around as his flesh began to quiver like the waters of a bathtub disturbed by the antics of a child. Like molting feathers, the reptile’s furry ears and tail fell away, fading into nothingness as they floated to the trembling foundation of the temple.

As the Ditto stared on in awe and horror, their warlord’s eyes shot open as his entire face seemed to bulge outward. The turtle’s facial bones snapped and cracked before sliding into place to form a doglike snout, and with a scream, a set of jagged molars punched through the Pokémon’s gums. Less distinct, triangular ears formed on Wartortle’s new, streamlined cranium as his once large eyes were reduced to feral slits set beneath a pronounced brow line.

A new, stout tail sprouted from where the former caudal appendage had been shed. The Pokémon’s arms and legs quivered and convulsed as they grew larger and impossibly muscular. The shell of the revolutionary grew in tandem—the once indistinct lines that separate the individual scutes becoming increasingly more defined as Wartortle’s size continued to grow.

A guttural howl escaped the toothy maw of the Pokémon as the two scutes located behind his shoulders bulged outward. Something beneath the surface of the turtle’s flesh began to churn as plates of armor-like bone underwent a conformational change—their shape and size shifting in lieu of the final stages of the evolution process. When at last the plates settled into their new spots, two giant steel cannons erupted from the tissue underneath.

The roar of pain that followed caused even his unwavering squadron of warriors to cower in fear as more dust and chunks of rock were liberating from the slowly crumbling structure. With a pneumatic hiss, the steel weapons locked into place and comfortably came to rest on the Pokémon’s broad shoulders. By the time the pillar of light faded, the transformation had all but reached its conclusion.

The relatively humanoid physique of Wartortle had been consumed amidst the evolution…replaced with a primal, primitive bulk that had no equal. Now more of wild creature than an anthropomorphic animal, the Pokémon let out barbaric roar and drove a clawed fist through the wall of the temple. The structurally unsound stone offered no resistance, and with a few more furious swipes of his giant fists, the evolved Wartortle sent what remained of the aged building hurtling down the mountainside.

“This is amazing,” the Stage Two Pokémon growled—his deep, rumbling voice booming across the mountain range as he towered over his trembling followers. “But something about this doesn’t feel as it should,” he added, running a hooked claw harmlessly across the peach-colored underside of his snout. After a moment, a feasible enough explanation came to the titanic turtle. “Damn bitch hid away the rest of the power from me!” He screamed, slamming a giant foot through the frozen earth.

As the Shellfish Pokémon’s fury grew, his already impressive size began to increase in tandem. It took but a moment for the two-story beast to realize that that particular quirk of his evolution. With a toothy smirk, he reached down and scooped up his squadron like they were children’s toys. Arching his back, the turtle let out a bellowing roar—triggering a few nearby avalanches…it seemed as if even Mother Nature herself was shivering beneath his fury.

Even at this early point in time, Wartortle knew that the power wasn’t going to last. He had no proof, but that bitch had spirited something away that was the key to unlocking the breadth of this awesome new power. Somewhere out there in the pathetic little world, the other half of Blastoise was waiting to be consumed by the ravenous might of Kanto’s warlord.

With thunderous steps, the Shellfish Pokémon lumbered down the mountainside—his transformation lasting only a few more minutes before he dropped his squadron and collapsed to his titanic knees. Frustrated, Blastoise began to punish the ground at the base of the mountain as he was consumed in a searing, white light. When the blinding lightshow faded moments later, a devolved Wartortle was left viciously pounding the ground he had fissured just seconds prior.

“What are you looking at?” The Turtle Pokémon hissed, looking up from the ground at the silent group of doppelgangers. “Go ready the bikes. I want to return to the frontline,” he added, smiling deviously as he pushed up off the punished earth.
 

Hela

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Chapter 2: The X Factor

“Good morning, Senator,” the woman said, her smile wide and her cheeks rosy as he walked up to the lavish desk that dominated the center of her boss’s senatorial office. As the secretary drew closer, she began to shuffle through documents. With a little giddy swagger, she shimmied her curvaceous hips and rested a newspaper on the polished, mahogany surface. “The results from the Montana and South Dakota primaries are out.”

Up until that moment, the senator had been facing away from the door—his large leather chair facing the large bay window of his well-furnished office. After all, the work of a senator has a tendency to grow boring, and once all the paperwork had been done, this senator loved nothing more than to enjoy the enthralling view of the downtown cityscape. In spite of their track record, man was a fascinating organism with such unbridled capacity.

But at that moment, the dark leather seat let out a squeak as the senator tore himself away from his observations. His secretary, Linda Coburn, continued to smile as she slid the thick newspaper toward her boss. Leaning over his desk, the politician cleared his throat and picked up the daily paper. A grin spread across his countenance as he began to read the title of USA Today’s top story.

“Results in for Montana and South Dakota…Senator Charmeleon Harris Jr. has reached magic number of 2,026 delegates needed to secure Presidential nomination,” with a series of ‘bohs’, Pokémon set the paper down and turned his widened eyes up to his youthful secretary. “We…did it!” He sudden blurted out, throwing his hands up in the air as the revelation finally set in. After a long and drawn-out primary season, he’d finally defeated his formidable opposition and (by all intensive purposes) secured his party’s nomination for President.

“There are a bunch of people waiting outside,” Linda said, her smile never faltering as she pulled out a small memo book. “Press and local people mostly…would you like me to tell them to come back later?” She asked, plucking a pen out from her suit jacket and rapping it melodically against the book.

“How many press people?” Charmeleon asked, sliding out of his desk chair before quickly straightening out his suit and making his way around the oversized piece of furniture and over to his faithful secretary. Compared to most members of his species, the Flame Pokémon was roughly six feet tall—his impressive physique the by-product of his healthy upbringing at the hand of both human and Pokémon ‘parents.’

“Couple hundred,” Linda mumbled, glancing around awkwardly and nervously as she scribbled down some words onto her little pad of paper. The remark caused the Democratic nominee for President to gasp, but at this point, he was used to Linda’s tendency to be nonchalant toward media moguls and political pundits. “Sorry…” she added, smirking faintly as she pushed up her jacket sleeve and eyed her Rolex.

“Don’t worry about it,” Charmeleon said, placing a compassionate and understand hand on the woman’s shoulder as the two of them made their way out of the senatorial office and down the hallway toward the lobby. “Today is a momentous day,” he added, smiling at the notion that his lifelong struggle was starting to bear fruit. As the pair reached the lobby, the Pokémon senator’s eyes widened when he realized the vastness of the crowd that had gathered in the lobby and the streets outside.

Composing himself, the legislator nodded to Linda and shut the hallway door behind him as the sea of people was ignited with camera flashes and signs of praise and adoration. From what he could tell, Charmeleon noticed that membership of the crowd was split evenly between Pokémon and Homo sapiens. It warmed the senator’s heart to see that some bulkier men had lifted the smaller, younger Pokémon onto their shoulders to ensure that everyone could hear and see Charmeleon.

“Speech!” Someone shouted from the sea of people, and in an instant, the sentiment was echoed by the rest of the enormous crowd. With a smile, the Flame Pokémon straightened his auburn tie and clicked the heels of his loafers together as he mused over what the say first. After a moment or two, the larger lights of the massive office lobby hummed to life—bathing the senator and the audience in a warm, lucid glow.

“My fellow Americans,” Charmeleon began, his booming voice triggering the empowered, giddy crowd to slowly start to quiet down. “This seemingly endless struggle has finally been won. After a tumultuous and nail-biting primary season, we have succeeded in securing our place in the November election,” the remark caused many people to start clapping, but the lizard calmly silenced them with a gentle motion of his hands.

“Who would have thought it possible?” The senator inquired, looking out into the brilliant sea of flashing cameras. “That someone with a background such as myself could have fought this far and lasted so long in the game? Even in the twenty years since Pokémon, such as myself, were given the same rights as all American citizens, no one would have thought a cracked egg abandoned by its mother would be able to rally enough people to have an impact.

“But we’re not done yet, my friends. My struggle—our struggle—will continue for the next six months. There have been a lot of words thrown around by the other parties and factions in this election, and through it all, all of us have managed to remain resolute against what many considered to be insurmountable odds. Many people have asked me the question as to why I remain in this race, and I’ll tell you why: Change.

“If you shall humble me long enough, I will dip back into this nation’s history as a foundation for one of my campaign’s central platforms. Two hundred and twenty-one years ago, a group of men gathered in Philadelphia and gathered beneath the warm spring sun and, with just a few simple words, they launched this country’s improbable experiment in democracy.

‘We the people, in order to form a more perfect union…’

“Those eleven words headlined the document those men drafted that would make real this nation’s declaration of independence. The document they produced was eventually signed but ultimately it was left unfinished. It was stained by this nation's original sin of slavery, a question that divided the colonies and brought the Constitutional Convention to a stalemate until the founders chose to allow the African slave trade to continue for at least twenty more years, and to leave any final resolution to future generations.

“And even as one slave trade ended, another continued—that being the enslaving and persecution of Pokémon as gladiators and pets. Back then relations were more natural, before the advent of devices of bondage, and although these individuals of a different species were capable of through and expression exponentially greater than the animals with which they were grouped for the sake of simplicity, they were deemed as nothing more than property.

“The black slaves gained their freedom nearly a hundred and forty years ago, and at that time, the Pokémon of this nation continued their lives of serfdom and servitude. Many of them accepted their role in society, but as time went on, there were others who did not. As Pokémon grew wiser and more diverse over the generations, the attitude toward them grew more intolerable. Many wondered if ever there would be a more healthy relationship between mankind and the Pokémon who came before him.

“What would be needed were Americans in successive generations who were willing to do their part—through protests and struggle, on the streets and in the courts, through civil disobedience that was always at a great risk—to narrow that gap between the promise of our ideals and the reality of their time. Although Pokémon have since been accepted as American citizens by man, the walls of discrimination and racism continue to separate the two more viciously than ever. Through the acts of terrorists such as the Pokémon Liberation Front, the division between the two species has become even more divided, and to many, there seemed as if there were no more patriots on either side willing to continue the struggle toward equality.

“This was one of the tasks we set forth at the beginning of this campaign—to continue the long march of those who came before us—a march for a more just, more equal, more free, more caring and more prosperous America. I chose to run for the presidency at this moment in history because I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together—unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction—towards a better future for our children and our grandchildren.

“This belief comes from my unyielding faith in the decency and generosity of the American people. But it also comes from my own American story…

“I am the son of two Pokémon—one of whom spent his years as a servant of an African overlord and the other who was the plaything of the daughter of a poor farmer. My parents met when my father emancipated himself during an overseas trip to an embassy on American soil in Iowa. By the time I was born, they were gone—having left me due to a defect in my shell, but I survived and was taken into the car of a young newlywed couple unable to have children of their own. Under their love, I learned the language I speak now and matured into who I am today. For as long as I live, I shall always know that without their love, my story would have never been possible. Nor would my story be possible without a nation such as this.

“My story hasn't made me the most conventional candidate, but it is a story that has seared into my genetic makeup the idea that this nation is more than the sum of its parts—that out of many, we are truly one.

“Throughout this campaign, against all predictions to the contrary, we saw how hungry the American people were for this message of unity. Despite the temptation to view my candidacy through a purely species-based lens, we won commanding victories in states with some of the largest populations of Homo sapiens in the country.

“This is not to say that my species has not been an issue in the campaign. At various stages in the campaign, some commentators have deemed me either "too much of a Pokémon" or "not human enough." It was that mentality that triggered the pundits to scour exit polls for months to find any hint of polarization in the voter turnout. And yet, it has only been in the last couple of weeks that the discussion of my species in this campaign has taken a particularly divisive turn.

“On one end of the spectrum, we've heard the implication that my candidacy is somehow an exercise in affirmative action; that it's based solely on the desire of wide-eyed liberals to purchase reconciliation on the cheap and to try and neutralize the efforts of ‘Poké-terrorists.’ On the other end, we've heard the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, use incendiary language to express views that have the potential not only to widen the divide between species, but views that denigrate both the greatness and the goodness of our nation; that rightly offend man and Pokémon alike.

“In the end, great people of this nation, myself and my staff of Pokémon, men, and woman alike will not tire in our struggle. We are dedicated to the formation of a more perfect union between the two species that compose this great nation, and with your support, we shall continue this fight for equality and peace all the way to the White House,” on that note, Charmeleon fell silent. He gave a humble nod to the crowd, which in turn triggered a thunderous, deafening applause to fill both the office building and the streets of the city.

***​

The Battle of Mill Creek had been won in a matter of minutes. The garrison of soldiers had been scattered and systematically annihilated by the infantry the second that the outlying outposts had crumbled beneath the perpetual bombings. In the quick battle, only nine Pokémon had been slain, and out of the entire human garrison, only three had escaped to the other side of the river. As he surveyed the killing fields, Alakazam felt pity for the poor apes who had been stationed near the creek. After all, most of them had fled toward the river the moment they realized they were outnumbered and overwhelmed.

It had been roughly a half-hour since the last of the human filth had been dragged from the river and vivisected. As with the majority of past skirmishes, Alakazam always liked to permit the soldiers about thirty minutes to do with as they please. Some took this time to relax, some to loot the dead, and even others used it to mutilate and disfigure the fallen. The Psi Pokémon didn’t mind what they did, just so long his army’s morale and momentum stayed high.

“The primate soldiers aren’t what they used to be,” a voice said next to the Psi Pokémon. With a faint chuckle, the lieutenant glanced down at the soldier who was standing at his side.

“These weren’t soldiers, Marowak,” the physic muttered, poking at an ensanguined corpse lying at the feet of the Pokémon pair. The adolescent (he couldn’t have been older than sixteen) had been impaled through the base of the spine by a poison needle. The tip of the projectile had punctured straight through and out the opposing side of his unwashed fatigues. From the anguish on the teenager’s face, it looked like the death had been slow and agonizing, with the poison taking its sweet time coursing through his veins before gradually shutting down his nervous system.

“They were the bonnie lads and lassies that the Homo sapiens ordered to void their lives to buy some time. These infidels were sent by the bureaucrats on a one-way mission into our gaping maw…perhaps the goal was to make us choke on their bones,” Alakazam added, rolling the deceased boy over onto his face.

“Heh,” Marowak muttered, glaring at the slain teenager with a venomous hatred. With a grunt, the Bone Keeper Pokémon brushed a loving hand across the skull that she wore over her own head. Amidst the fury of her eyes, Alakazam could see the continual sadness that plagued the young mother.

“This shouldn’t be about your vendetta,” the physic spoke, his usually commanding voice a soft whisper as he glanced down at the shorter Pokémon. With a glare, the stout dinosaur clenched the ensanguined bone that she had used earlier in the battle to club several of the panicked soldiers into bloody piles. “You are part of a greater whole…you are not alone in your sadness.”

“I’ve heard the warlord’s speeches,” Marowak retorted—her voice soft as she looked at her species’ weapon of choice. “But you can’t hope to understand how it makes me feel to know that those apes who murdered my son get to live. How many Marowak’s have you met that wear the skull of their offspring, Alakazam? How many of my species wield their son’s femur as a weapon? I should be the one who died that day…not him,” as she seethed, tears began to form at the corner of the mother’s eyes.

Alakazam had heard the stories about the Pokémon standing next to him, and the tragic events that had led her into the warm embrace of Wartortle’s insurrection. Up until a few months ago, the tan dinosaur had been living with her child on the outskirts of Lavender Town—a small village out somewhere around Iowa. As the story went, Pokémon trappers came for their ornamental bones (which are apparently worth a lot in certain trades) and killed her son in the scuffle that followed.

Most Cubone wore the skulls of their fallen ancestors. In my most cases, they most frequently done the bones of their fallen mother (Marowak’s tend to have a relatively short lifespan due to outside sources), but due to the intervention of mankind, this Marowak now wore her son’s own skull as a helmet. The Bone Keeper Pokémon that stood at Alakazam’s side was just one of the many poster children of the revolution.

“Everyone form back up!” The Psi Pokémon barked, his eyes darting to and fro in search for anyone with enough folly to disobey one of his orders. As the marching ranks began to reform, the armored physic turned his attention back to the grieving mother.

You will have your revenge, Marowak. He said softly, his voice echoing inside the dinosaur’s head as she wiped the tears from her son’s skull. The words in her head caused her to turn her attention back up toward the lieutenant. We will all have our revenge, private. We are all here to support you, but for now, it is time to march on.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” she said, wiping the tears off the ivory surface of her slain son’s skull. With a salute, Marowak marched off to join with her fellow brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Turning his head toward the horizon, Alakazam began to smile—the corners of his lips curling up as his eyes started to glow a faint pink. He couldn’t help but find extract some glee from the fact that there was only one more outpost that stood between his army and St. Guinevere.

Only a matter of time… The physic mused, shifting his attention back to his soldiers. “Let’s roll out, boys!” He bellowed, thrusting a hand toward the horizon. In a matter of hours, the last bits of daylight would be gone, and the Psi Pokémon wanted nothing more than to celebrate two victories tonight.

All around the world, there was news of the Pokémon uprising in the southern United States. In the months since the establishment of the country of Kanto, many civilized across the world had become victims of Poké-terrorists. Most countries had responded to the increase in terrorism by either evicting or imprisoning all the free Pokémon living within their borders.

Other nations, however, reacted to the rebellion with flat-out violence. Germany, England, and Italy were hotbeds of terrorism, and each day, the death toll for both sides climbed slowly as the result of sporadic acts of violence by the police and military forces. The greatest casualty on the global scale was the nation of France, who was lauded by its neighbors for attempting to appease the terrorists with cease-fires and treaties that promised asylum to any European Pokémon not openly affiliated with the rebels.

For weeks, France became the home of several homeless Pokémon, who had been forced out of their homes all across the continent. Although there were some pockets of resistance, the majority of the French people welcomed the immigrants with open arms. After all, free Pokémon were an excellent source of labor for blue-collar jobs. For instance, three Machops could construct a building in half the time that it would take for a crew of fifty to finish the job.

Unfortunately for the French government, hostilities between the members of the European Union continued until all-out war broke out between all the nations of the continent. Lines were drawn between those countries who supported freed Pokémon and those who believed that all Pokémon were dangerous due to the recent global uprisings. In a gruesome conflict, mainland Europe was reduced to bloody ruins—its cities left charred ruins and its people broken and disillusioned.

Although France would eventually surrender, the war dragged on for weeks longer than anticipated. At the end of the war, Germany, England, and Russia were left as the only stable European powers. The majority of the Pokémon who had lived on the continent had either been killed or be evacuated to Kanto by the French government. Only Pokémon under the control of trainers were allowed on the continent, but even then, the terrorism continued.

***​

As England and Germany struggled to make ends meet in the months after the war, the Russia government collapsed—the majority of its funding going toward secret homeland security. As its people starved, the Russian scientists slaved away to finish their trump card in the war against Wartortle. Just as the fall of Mill Creek was announced on public networks, there was breakthrough that would catalyze the arrival of the dark days to come.

In a former soviet bunker near Moscow, a group of balding Russians scientists scampered around their dingy laboratory—their lab coats stained with sweat and grim as they continued to work without pause. The bunker that had served as their living quarters for the last five months was no longer than a football field. There were rooms for sleeping, eating, and four rooms dedicated to the project.

The chambers were connected by a dimly light network of rusty hallways that hadn’t been cleaned once since the project had commenced. At the end of the facility, an aged metal door creaked open, and a rather amused Russian scientist stumbled into the hallway. Stepping forward, he latched on of his colleagues by the arm and began to shake him.

“It’s awake!” The scientist whispered before letting his coworkers arm free. With a giddy squeal, the bald researcher vanished back into the main lab. Shocked and taken aback by the man’s words, the other scientist began to scurry around the facility and spread the glorious news. In a matter of seconds, the entire complex was alive with whispers of success and brilliance.

Back in the central lab room, Dr. Giovanni began to smile as he approached the massive stasis tube that dominated the laboratory. Within the liquid-filled cylinder was the by-product of months of scientific research and billions of tax dollars. All around the good doctor, there were several tubes that housed failed prototypes, but after twelve failed attempts, they had finally managed to successfully propagate a clone from a sample of the source DNA.

“Doctor!” The ecstatic voice was that of Ivan, an intern who had been selected to assist the team of scientists and bioengineers in their project. “I’ve heard the good news!” Ivan couldn’t have been older than twenty years old, but the last few months in the cold, underground bunker had aged him substantially.

“It’s correct,” Dr. Giovanni muttered, walking over to a computer screen. With a weak smile, he grabbed his laboratory notebook and began to scribble down information off the monitor. “Test Subject 13 is displaying stable heart rate and minimal psionic emanations,” detailed the doctor as he walked back over to the central tube. “The subject is currently in perfect stasis and has completed its growth cycle. It is…ready.”

Bang!

Dr. Giovanni’s eyes went wide as his chest exploded outward in a flurry of blood and other biological shrapnel. The bullet tore clean through the Russian man’s chest and ricocheted off the reinforced glass of the stasis cell, leaving behind a visible crack. Pitching forward, the middle-aged scientist hit the tube and fell to the ground. As he slid down the length of the ruptured cell, the man turned to face his shooter. In front of him, Ivan stood with a malicious grin on his prematurely aged countenance.

“Why?” Dr. Giovanni whimpered as the blood began to seep out through his mouth. “Why, Ivan?” He repeated weakly as his vision started to blur and fade to black.

“For the money…do you know how much a weapon like this will sell for?” The intern asked, stepping forward and firing another round through the bald cranium of his former colleague. Shifting around, Ivan found himself surrounding by a number of scientists. “Anyone want to join the good doctor?” The young man asked, pointing the gun at the men and woman who had piled into the room. Slowly but surely, the group began to back away from the gunman, but their attention was solely dedicated the gentle sound of glass splintering behind young Ivan.

With a furrowed brow, the intern slowly turned around to face the ruptured stasis cell. The crack from the bullet has widened into a deep fissure that hemorrhaging the liquid inside the tube at a steady rate. Backing up from the machine, Ivan turned his attention to the computer monitor that Dr. Giovanni had been observing just a little bit ago. The small screen was alive with several warnings, but one of them was a tad bit more pressing than the others: ‘Subject 13 waking from stasis.’

Within the quickly draining tube, the cat-like creature stirred—its lithe, white body twitching as it began to wake up for the first time. The subject’s large, purple tail wiggled as it fell away from the tubes connected to it. Ivan, who at this point had lost all the composure he had mustered to get this far, began to hit various keys on the terminal. Unfortunately for the intern and his coworkers, Dr. Giovanni was the only one with the knowledge to operate the stasis cells, and at this moment in time, he was nothing more than an ensanguined memory.

“What happens now?” One of the scientists said, backing away from the center of the room. As the last of the liquid squirted out through the widened fissure, the crowd of panicked men and women began whispering and mumbling amongst themselves. At the first signs of the test subject moving, they began to scream and charge for the door.

Inside the stasis cell, Subject 13 began to take its first breaths, and as Ivan looked on, its eyes shot open. Just as the man had feared, the experiment’s big, purple eyes were filled with a fiery hatred of the world around it. Slowly, it began to yank out the various tubes and wires that connected it to the various machinery and devices around it. As the last of the wires fell away from it, the clone lifted a three-fingered hand to its face.

Thinking that the experiment was preoccupied with itself, Ivan took a single step toward the door. At that moment, Subject 13 threw its hand forward—shattering the walls of its prison with the utmost lack of effort. Realizing it was time to leave; Ivan let out a whimper and turned to run. With his head low, the frightened intern managed to take two steps before he collided with the chest of Subject 13.

Yelping in terror, Ivan stumbled backwards and lifted his firearm toward the frowning visage of the clone. Without another moment of hesitation, he pulled the trigger and sent a bullet exploding forth from the chamber toward the feline’s forehead. Despite his hope, Ivan watched in overwhelming horror as the projectile came to a sudden an abrupt halt a few inches from Subject 13.

Titling its head, the experiment reached forward and plucked the bullet out of the air. For a moment or two, it examined the cone-shaped projectile. Trying to capitalize on the newly awoken clone’s seemingly inquisitive nature, Ivan ran around the four-foot experiment and began sprinting toward the door. His lips parted in a relieved smile as he passed through the doorway and into the hallway that lie beyond.

Pfft. A weak squeal escaped the intern’s lips as he stumbled and hit the ground. Ivan was dead by the time he hit the floor—his chest having been blown apart by the bullet still whizzing down the corridor. Back in the lab, Subject 13 stood with its hand extended out toward the dead man. The clone continued to frown heavily as it lowered its arm and turned its large, purple eyes toward its dead brother’s and sister’s that inhabited the lab’s numerous stasis cells.

They had all been created relatively at the same point in time in an effort to increase the productivity of the lab’s experiments. All the clones had communicated with one another on a telepathic wavelength beyond the perception of their human creators. None of them had any qualms with their test tube life because they had one another to keep them company.

One by one, however, the other clones began to wither away and die. Some of them died from physic feedback, a phenomenon in which a young telepath accidentally overexerts his or herself and fries out their brain as a result. Others died from lack of nourishment or due to defects in the genetic code. After a while, Subject 13 was the only one left, and in his loneliness, he grew to hate his creators for letting his brothers and sisters die.

As he rapidly matured into adulthood, the clone’s capabilities grew by leaps and bounds. In tandem, his hatred festered within him until he felt like nothing more than an empty, lifeless shell. Now that he had been freed from his bondage, he would ensure that the world became just as lifeless and empty as he felt on the inside. Clenching his fists, Subject 13 looked up at the ceiling above his head.

Staring up at the concrete, the clone willed that it be gone from his pathway, and with a horrible screeching wail, the steel broke apart and fell to the floor around the feline experiment. All at once, the hundreds of feet worth of dirt began to pour in through the gaping hole in the ceiling, but by the time the first particles of earth hit the floor of the installation, Subject 13 was long gone.

Several miles to the east of Mill Creek, a single man hobbled his way across the fields that stretched from the river all the way to the city of St. Guinevere. With each step he took, Private Jonathan Stevens wheezed—his breathing erratic as he leaned heavily on his waterlogged machinegun. The young soldier, although battered and bloodied in the skirmish, had managed to slip away from the Pokémon in the aftermath of his run-in with mysterious woman.

“So close,” the private wheezed, turning his half-closed eyes toward the large outpost on the horizon. From what he had heard about the region during his stay at Mill Creek, Jonathan knew that the old fort used to be one of those living museums where the school kids would get to walk around and talking to people acting like they were old settlers form times long gone. With the looming threat of Wartortle invading the rest of the peninsula, the local government had turned the museum into an active military fort.

As he limped toward his destination, Jonathan glanced over his bloodied shoulder. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew that the rebels weren’t too far behind him, and after having stumbled and lurched this far, he didn’t want to be overwhelmed before he could reach the fleeting safety of Fort Guinness. Gathering together his dwindling strength, Jonathan sucked in a deep breath of the fresh, evening air and continued his grueling march.

***​

“Lieutenant!” The shrill voice caused the monstrous Machamp to turn his attention away from the strange hominid monument. Pivoting, the Superpower Pokémon found himself in the pretenses of his subordinate officer—Major Scyther. The bipedal insect lifted one of his bladed appendages up in a salute before he continued to speak. “The rest of the human forces in this region have been shattered and the local leaders have fled to islands in the gulf to the south.”

Machamp simply nodded and turned back to the large steel monstrosity in front of him. The machine itself originated from a large building a few yards to the left of the monstrous Pokémon. Starting within the confines of the structure, the elevated track exited through via a large, green cannon and looped, spun, and pivoted countless times before returning to its point of origin. At several points along its path, the track skirted along one of the bodies of water that the human encampment had been erected around.

The massive behemoth of steel and paint was surrounded by several neighbors whose purposes were of equal confusion and mystery to the muscular Pokémon. Despite his inability to discern why they had been built in the first place, Machamp found himself slightly awed by the massive scale of all the bizarre apparatuses that lined the vast stretch of land.

One of them was a giant, circular building that could spin and rotate through usage of a nearby terminal. Another was a massive tower that clawed at the low hanging clouds that drifted aimlessly overhead. A few of the soldiers had tested the tower and deduced that it was apparently some sort of sentry post, as there was a deck attached to the device. Unfortunately for the Pokémon involved, the machine was of poor design and the deck plunged upward at speeds that quickly induced vomiting. Furthermore, the descent mechanism was flawed to the point where the deck bounced as it lowered back toward the ground.

“The humans and their bizarre architecture never cease to amaze me,” Scyther spoke, his beady eyes looking up at the giant, stone lighthouse that signified the gates that lead to this part of the encampment. Amidst the initial gunfire, a stray shell had blown away part of the large sign that denoted the name of the fort. “Should I order ballistics to level this and the other forts?” The major asked, turning around to face the four-armed Pokémon.

“No,” Machamp ordered, running a hand across on of the railing that traced a path up to the entrance of the machine he had been staring at for the last few minutes. “If all the humans in the area have been exterminated, I want any damage to these machines fixed. I want some walls built around this and the fort with the large globe in front of it…we’ll use this place to consolidate our regional power. Understood?” The ten-foot warrior replied, his red eyes narrowing slightly.

“Of course,” Scyther said, a bead of sweat forming near his temple. It wasn’t that often that Machamp spoke more than a few words, but when he did, the Mantis Pokémon knew to pay attention and do as he was instructed. The two officers exchanged salutes and then the smaller of the two dashed off to spread the word.

From the entrance of the nearby building, a diminutive yellow rodent in a lab coat emerged—his usually immaculate fur dotted with grease and grim. With a snicker, Pikachu placed a hand onto a painting of a green man that adorned the wall of the building. Smiling faintly, Machamp stepped over the four-foot railing and made his way toward the bipedal mouse.

“I got it working,” Pikachu spoke, smacking his hands together as the lieutenant made ducked down and made his way into the dim building. Sighing slightly, the technician glanced over his shoulder and watched as his commanding officer started up the numerous flights of stairs that led to the structure’s loading bay. “You’re welcome!” He added sardonically, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette as Machamp vanished from view.
 

Hela

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Chapter 3: Dance of Death

One week had passed since the battle of Mill Creek. Using the momentum his men had garnered from that victory, Alakazam had routed the humans a second time just north of that settlement—driving their forces back to the city of St. Guinevere. Without the manpower of Machamp’s division, the physic had been unable to press the assault and solidify the Pokémon Liberation Front’s control over the peninsula.

Fortunately for Alakazam and those under his command, the hominids had stayed relatively quiet. The flyers had reported, however, that they had used the brief respite to fortify the city limits with several crude towers and makeshift walls. It wasn’t anything that a determined soldier couldn’t have plowed through, but it was nevertheless one more barricade that stood between the Psi Pokémon and his hungry, anxious soldiers.

“The warlord is here!” One of the lieutenant’s flyers shouted from overhead. Glancing up at the Fearow, Alakazam nodded his head and floated down from the balcony upon which he had been situated for the last few hours. Upon touching down on the earth, he simply vanished from sight, and the guards posted at the backdoor of the old primate fort had a pleasant surprise when Alakazam blinked into existence in front of them.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” One of them inquired, tilting his head to the side as the physic waved a hand toward the large, archaic gate. With a dramatic creak, the wooden gates swung outward as Wartortle drew closer to the settlement on his motorcycle. A few moments later, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front came to a screeching halt in front of the mustachioed physic.

Instantaneously, the two guards dropped to one knee and saluted their leader as he reached into the glove compartment of his hover bike and pulled out a handful of change. With a flick of his wrist, the Turtle Pokémon tossed the pocket change onto the cobblestone floor. An instant later, there was a puff of smoke and six Hitmonchans were standing where the coins had once been. Knowing their duty, the six doppelgangers darted off to take care of their jobs.

Reaching into the pocket of his cloak, Wartortle pulled out a small remote and pointed it at his hover bike. The machine was a quite faithful piece of technology that had served as the warlord’s personal vehicle after he had liberated it from a science installation near Cape Cod. Pressing the button, the azure revolutionary smirked as the hover bike jiggled just a little bit and then proceeded to collapse in on itself. After a few seconds, Wartortle took a few steps forward and collected the watch from the floor.

“Update?” He asked as he fastened the small piece of jewelry around his wrist.

“About twenty casualties from the march up here and through the series of human fortifications along the way,” Alakazam began, motioning with his head for his leader to follow him. With a nod, Wartortle ordered the two guards to shut the door and then began to walk alongside his lieutenant as they took a leisurely stroll through the former human fort. “The humans have fled to St. Guinevere, which is only moderately fortified at this point in time. However, there is a… strong army presence in the city, with both tanks and a small number of aircraft.”

“Have you heard anything from Machamp and his boys down south?” Wartortle asked, crossing his hands behind his back as the two passed through the city square. All around them, Pokémon paused what they were doing and saluted to pay the proper respects to the two officers.

“I received one of his teleporters about a day and a half ago,” Alakazam replied, his eyes scanning the entire fort as he checked to make sure all the assigned work had been completed in time for the warlord’s arrival. “He’s driven the Homo sapiens from the southern end of the peninsula into the ocean. As of the arrival of the messenger, he had captured Miami and begun his march back up to our end. He’s left two of his finest brigadiers in the region in case the humans decided to counterattack.”

“Excellent,” Wartortle said with a toothy grin. “As soon as his forces get here, we will destroy that city and any resistance to our control of this peninsula. Is everything running smoothly in Antioch?”

“Yes,” Alakazam replied as the duo rounded a street corner and started toward the fort’s central administration building—a rather rundown building that, like most of the crappy structures in the encampment, looked to be a few hundred years old. “Reconstruction is nearly complete in most regions of the city, and even as we speak, more and more Pokémon from overseas are flocking in to join the cause.”

“Excellent,” the amphibious warlord replied as the door to the administration building swung open without anyone touching it. Wartortle snickered softly at Alakazam as the pair made their way into the structure. The inside, which had been completely transformed following the fall of the fort, was lined with several maps and dioramas of the city and surrounding regions. “Good work, Lieutenant,” the turtle said as he leaned over one of the larger maps.

“How was Tibet?” Alakazam inquired as Wartortle began to scribble lines onto the map. With a laugh, the Turtle Pokémon glanced up at his old friend and shook his head.

“Irritating,” the warlord replied, turning back down to the regional map.

“Then you didn’t find what you were looking for?” The physic asked, despite the fact that his mind reading capabilities had already given him the answer to the question.

“Eh,” Wartortle started, turning his attention to a smaller map that detailed the city’s sewer systems. “Yes, I did, but those divine types are wily sons of bitches…she shorthanded me. Did Machamp’s runner tell you how far away the lieutenant’s division is from our location?”

“He said that we should expect his forces in roughly two days, Warlord,” Alakazam detailed, turning his attention to the scribbling of his leader. “A plan?”

“Of course,” Wartortle laughed, eying up the rest of the maps for anything he found mildly important. “Did you say that the city was fortified? Mind pointing out the locations on this map for me?” He asked as he reached under the large table and pulled up a small wooden box filled with metal miniatures.

“Not a problem,” Alakazam replied, pointing a finger at the map. As Wartortle watched, several scorch marks began to appear around the city limits. With a frown, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front took a step back and began to flesh out a plan to deal with the humans and their filthy city.

A few hours after the arrival of Wartortle, Machamp and his army rolled into the dilapidated human fort. With a smile on his face, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front issued that the battle would commence in the morning, and in the meantime, all the soldiers were free to relax and prepare themselves for the carnage. For some, the wait was welcomed with open arms, but for those like Marowak, the stalling was nothing more than gruesome torture.

***​

Across the Atlantic Ocean, the city of Moscow was burning to the ground—its buildings alight with unquenchable flames. Throughout the metropolis, the panicked inhabitants were running around, screaming as if they were decapitated poultry. Even more people lay dying on the ground, the bodies either broken in the chaos or consumed by the undying inferno that had claimed everything they had worked so hard to build.

Down the city’s main street, the lithe form of Subject 13 floated casually, his eyes glowing a faint pink as the ground splintered and cracked beneath his feet. As the clone rounded a new corner, he found himself facing a group of eight grizzly, panicked soldiers armed with high-powered rifles. Reeling back in horror, the pack of primates retreated, knowing full well what had happened to their comrades who had tried to go up against the being they had called ‘The Destroyer.’

A smile spread across the feline visage of Subject 13 as he lifted one of his three-fingered paws. Up ahead of him, one of the soldiers stumbled, let out a violent scream, and burst into flames. All around the overwhelmingly dead man, his brothers-in-arms let out horrified shrieks and turned to face the slowly moving clone. In an act of desperation and despair, they opened fire upon Subject 13—sending a hail of gunfire screaming across the street toward the levitating feline.

Just as the bullets were about to arrive at their target, there was a flicker of light and a translucent dome of energy appeared around the clone. Upon impact with the force field, the bullets disintegrated, leaving behind tiny plumes of smoke as they crumbled into nothingness. Clenching his fingers, Subject 13 focused his thoughts and sent two of the soldiers hurtling into the sky like they were tiny pebbles.

Gliding forward with increased speed, the feline experiment opened his mouth and began to laugh as the five surviving soldiers let out agonized screams and dropped their weapons to the floor. Subject 13 slowly began to raise his fists, and as he did, the Russians fell to their knees—their trembling hands clutching at their temples as their minds slowly began to bubble within their skulls.

“Die,” the clone muttered, dropping his hands back down his sides. In a dazzling array of gore and brutality, the heads of the five soldiers popped like overfilled balloons. As the corpses thudded to the ground, Subject 13 simply continued forward—his glowing eyes scanning his surroundings for any further signs of resistance. After a few minutes, he found himself thoroughly disappointed that there was no one alive to offer him any type of conflict.

These humans are far more fragile than I thought. The humanoid feline mused, turning his eyes toward a building to his left. Much to the amusement of Subject 13, the structure had no caught fire, but that was something that could easily be remedied. And just like that, the old convenience store light up like kindling. Even the building’s brick façade was unable to withstand the searing heat, and after only a few seconds, the entire structure collapsed into a pile of flaming rubble.

Behind you. The subconscious warning gave the clone just the time he needed to turn around and deflect the missile into the sky before it managed to strike its target. With a vibrant show of light and heat, the discarded projectile exploded like a firecracker, spilling chunks of shrapnel and burning steel across the heart of the city. Smiling at the efforts of the tank, Subject 13 lifted a hand and slowly began to tighten his fingers into a fist.

As the feline’s fingers drew closer, the dense steel shell of the tank began to buckle into itself. By the time the clone had made a fist, the three-ton vehicle was nothing more than a ball of smashed metal that was leaking small trails of smoke and fire. With a flick of his wrist, Subject 13 discarded the broken tank as if it were nothing more than a crumbled-up piece of paper.

Sighing, the feline took flight—his eyes glowing brighter as he ascended above the highest skyscrapers. When he was a few hundred feet above the highest building in the city, Subject 13 once again began to snicker as he extended a hand forward. The air around the lithe experiment began to ripple as a small sphere of pink energy began to form in front of the clone’s extended palm. Within seconds, the scintillating orb of heat and light roughly half a mile in diameter.

“May you find solace in the darkness,” Subject 13 muttered as the sphere of energy zipped forth, leaving behind a light, pink trail as it rocketed toward the sprawling metropolis that lie below. As the condensed sphere grew closer to the earth, the buildings began to buckle under the considerable heat—their frames and supports melting away into nothingness. But before the structures had a chance to collapse, the ball of energy hit the earth and detonated.

In an instant, the city of Moscow and all of its panicking inhabitants simply ceased to exist. There was a flash of light, and then the energy itself spilled out in all directions, consuming everything and anything caught within its blast radius. Any of the soldiers and civilians who had escaped from the city limits were torn apart by the thunderous shockwave that precipitated the initial explosion. As he looked on, a smile spread across Subject 13’s visage as a three-mile-tall mushroom cloud billowed up from the epicenter of the blast.

Enjoy your absolution.

***​

With a scream, Jonathan Stevens awoke from another nightmare, his body sweaty and clammy as tried to calm his erratic heart rate. After all, this wasn’t the first time that his sleep had been tainted by one of the nightmares, and by this point, he felt ashamed for not being used to them by now. Nevertheless, the private let out a groan and slid off the squeaky cot that the military had assigned him last week.

Stretching, Jonathan turned his eyes toward the small window set high up on the wall and realized that dawn was quickly approaching. Grunting softly as he struggled to dress himself in the limited daylight, the private turned his thoughts inward as he tried to discern the point of the nightmares. Despite the fact that they were always the same, he was having severe problems recalling the specific events. All that he really remembered upon waking was that he had been fighting from a sentry post with a few other men.

In the dream, one of them took a bullet to the chest and collapsed down the side of the barricade. Jonathan, who had been taken aback by the sudden sniper fire, had leaned over the side of the fortification to grab the man and hoist him to safety. Unfortunately for the private, the second he leaned over the wall of the barricade he got zapped by a bolt of electricity and sent hurtling down to the skirmish below. It was at that point that the dream always ended—with Jonathan waking up in his bed panicked and confused.

“Gotta mean something,” the private mumbled as he made his way out of his cramped living quarters and into the equally uncomfortably sized hallway that lie beyond. As he walked down toward the recreation room, there was a roar from above the ceiling of the building. Dashing toward a door at the end of the corridor, Jonathan managed to make it outside just in enough time to see the trio of fighter jets blitz across the morning sky on route to the Pokémon fort to the south.

It was quickly approaching the first light of day when the wailing of the emergency sirens awoke the majority of the sleeping soldiers from their dreams of grandeur and whimsy. Wartortle, however, had been awake for several hours when the alarms tore him away from the final stages of his planning. With a growl, the Turtle Pokémon pushed away from the circular table and charged out of the administration building.

On the way out of the wooden shack, he plucked his machine guns from their rack near the door. Vaulting out into the misty atmosphere of the pre-dawn landscape, Wartortle quickly found himself joined by a slew of subordinate officers and soldiers. In a flurry, they ushered their illustrious leader across the glistening cobblestone and up to a small tent near the front gate of the captured fort.

“Status,” the warlord inquired, turning his infuriated gaze toward the Mr. Mime that stood perched over the crude radar system. With a frown, the physic slammed his fists on the control panel and looked up at his leader.

“Three jets inbound from the human city,” the Barrier Pokémon replied, pulling out a small radio as he fumbled with more of the tools that lined the observation booth. Turning his attention away from Wartortle, the clown-like biped pressed the button on the handheld device and began to bark orders to whoever was on the other end of the channel. “We have bogies en route to our position, scramble the aerial units and prepare to engage, over!”

“Instructions received,” a shrill voice replied through the sea of static that spilled out from the radio’s speaker. “We’ll show them who rules the skies, over and out,” on that note, Wartortle vacated the radar booth and quickly scaled a nearby outlook tower. About a mile out, he could see three black shapes encroaching on their position. If the planes were bombers, then it was imperative that they be stopped before they could unload their lethal cargo upon the fort.

All of a sudden, something zipped over the warlord’s current position—causing him to be struck with a gust of dust and loose soil as three small figures zipped out to combat the hominid aircraft. At the helm of the group was Captain Pidgeot, who oversaw the training of any Pokémon born with a set of wings and capable of actual flight. All three members of the squadron wore leather caps and aviator goggles. The squadron communicated via small radio transmitters within their headgear.

“All right boys,” the captain squawked, glancing over at the birds to his left and right for a nod before continuing. “This one here is the big one! We’re going to show the warlord that we flyers can do more than spy and scout. Let’s get in and get out, gentlemen… I don’t want to see any fancy flying, just get the job done so we can go home. Can I get a ‘yes, sir!’?”

“Yes, Sir!” The two other Pidgeots replied—saluting with their wings as the trio accelerated to Mach 2 and prepared to meet head-on with the primate flyers. On the other side of the confrontation, the human pilots took evasive action, splitting their formation apart before the triad of supersonic birds was upon them. Sneering at the human pilots and their awkwardness in the sky, Captain Pidgeot issued the order to break apart and engage the planes one-on-one.

With that, the trio of raptors split apart, and each began to pursue on of the F-22s. Without bothering to slow down, the captain of the Pokémon flyers performed a flawless horizontal loop and began toward the central plane. Realizing that he was being followed, the pilot immediately veered his craft upward and began rocketing toward the upper levels of the planet’s atmosphere. Unfortunately for the pilot, Captain Pidgeot was gaining rapidly, and it would only be a matter of seconds before the supersonic capabilities of the bird closed the gap between the two opponents.

Swerving as he punched through the clouds, the pilot managed to maneuver himself behind the oversized bird via a handful of expertly executed drills he had learned from his several years of military service. With a smile, the man squeezed down his trigger, and just like that, a hatch on the belly of his craft opened, releasing an air-to-air missile that quickly began to stalk Captain Pidgeot.

Tch. The bird thought to himself as the missile began to catch up to him. Stupid humans and their missiles… Just as the rocket-powered projectile was about to barbeque the bird, the captain barrel rolled, and the missile went zipping forward toward the horizon. With a violent pivot, Captain Pidgeot spun around and surprised the pilot of the vessel by landing perfectly on the cockpit of his vessel. The two aerial combatants locked eyes for a brief moment, and then the Bird Pokémon punched through the dome of the cockpit with one of his fearsome talons and disemboweled the frightened pilot as he tried to react.

A few thousand feet below the captain of the trio of birds, his two protégées were having less than stellar results. For the last half a minute or so, they had managed to evade the intermittent bursts of machinegun fire, but they lacked the experience that their captain possessed. One of the raptors had managed to pull his opponent away from the fort, but the second of the Pidgeots was being driven back to the encampment by a rather surly opponent.

“You have to get him away from the others,” the first of the cadet birds replied through the small radio transmitters. “We can’t let them do any damage to those on the ground!”

“Little busy here!” The second cadet screamed through the communication apparatus as he spiraled dramatically in an effort to avoid another hail of 20 mm bullets. Within the cockpit of the F-22, the pilot let out a smile as his reticule flashed red around the body of the supersonic bird. With a malicious glee, the man pressed the button and fired the missile, veering his craft away as the anti-air projectile rocketed toward its target.

“Take evasive maneuvers!” The first cadet squawked. “Do a barrel roll!” He added as he dipped down toward the ground in order to escape a poorly aimed missile fired by his adversary.

“I can’t!” The second Pidgeot shrieked, and then there was nothing but static on the other end of the line. On the ground, Wartortle and the others watched in horror as the noble bird was consumed by the high-powered blast and reduced to nothing more than some free-floating rubble.

“Argh!” Wartortle roared, pushing through the crowd that had gathered as he made his way toward the turret that had been assembled a few days earlier. Although the device hadn’t been tested, the warlord figured that now was as good a time as any, and with the unquenchable flames of hatred burning in his eyes, the Turtle Pokémon began to fire.

Up in the skies, the captain of the trio had descended just in enough time to watch the first of his officer cadets perish. With a high-pitched, squaring scream, the aerial veteran pushed off with his wings and began zipping toward the enemy fighter at speeds that made him look like a mere blur to the unaided eye.

Now with two opponents, the remaining cadet quickly found himself growing fatigued from his inability to shake the two malicious opponents. Fortunately for him, however, his captain plunged into the scene and tore through the right wing of the first vessel with an impassion screech. It was right about then that Wartortle managed to get his aiming right, and in a dramatic blaze of glory, the other F-22 crashed to the ground and exploded into shrapnel a few miles from the fort.

Without a wing to stabilize his flying, the remaining pilot could do little more than abandon ship as his aircraft spiraled toward its doom. As his parachute activated, Captain Pidgeot pounced upon him and ripped out his throat with a flick of his steel-like beak. Kicking off from the slain pilot, the Bird Pokémon motioned toward his remaining cadet officer and started to return to the fort.

Stepping away from the turret, Wartortle threw up his fist and let out a victorious shout. All around him, the rest of the army followed suit, and by the time the two Pidgeots returned, they were welcomed by forty thousand invigorated comrades. Making his way through the crowd, the warlord continued to shout and roar up until he made it to the front of the group. Once he had scaled the tower he had been standing at during the majority of the attack, he motioned for the group to grow silent. Within seconds, a tense silence befell the soldiers as they awaited the order that they so longed to hear.

“Attack!” Wartortle screamed, whipping out his machineguns and firing them into the sky as fresh battle cries of all sorts and sizes filled the dilapidated fort.

“They’re coming!” The man shouted, his hands flailing wildly in the air as he ran down Elysium Avenue. All around him, the residents of St. Guinevere scrambled toward their homes—locking the doors and slamming the windows shut in order to help foster a shallow sense of security. Deep down, however, they knew that unless the army could hold back the enemy, there would be no asylum for them in the hours to come.

From his perch near the perimeter of the city, Private Jonathan Stevens fidgeted as his mind prompted him to recall the reoccurring dream. With a frown on his face, the young man glanced to his left and right at the two other soldiers who had been positioned with him in the unstable outpost. The two men looked just as uncomfortable as the private as they shivered amidst the cold, piercing wind that was blowing in from the south. Jonathan couldn’t help but feel like he was already doomed…

The Pokémon Liberation Front marched in perfect unison as they quickly closed the gap between them and the bustling city of St. Guinevere. At their helm, Wartortle lead the mob, his itchy trigger fingers twitching intermittently as he clenched the machine guns in his scaly hands. The Turtle Pokémon wore a toothy grin on his face as the city grew wider and taller on the horizon. It would only be a matter of time before nothing remained but a smoldering pile of brick, steel, and corpses.

“Crappy weather,” Machamp grumbled, prompting the amphibious anarchist to turn to his left and nod in agreement at his lieutenant’s remark. Deep down, however, the turtle wasn’t feeling the least bit uncomfortable amidst the frigid, morning air. Since his run-in with the oracle in Tibet, the environmental extremes just weren’t that big a problem to him. Whether it was the frozen mountainous climate of the Far East or the sweltering heat of the Sahara, nothing Mother Nature threw at the reptile caused him even the slightest discomfort.

It seems like Tibet went better than you feel like mentioning. Alakazam remarked, laughing telepathically as he glanced over at his leader. I think this is going to be one interesting siege if I’ve ever seen one. The physic added, grinning as the army continued toward the bastion of human resistance.

“Stop reading my thoughts, Lieutenant,” Wartortle snickered as he reached out with both his guns. Like a well-oiled machine, the marching mass of soldiers came to an abrupt halt as all nearby eyes turned toward the six-foot reptilian general. “I want all squadron leaders to meet with me one last time prior to the assault,” without delay, about a dozen Pokémon shuffled their way through the bulk of soldiers and gathered around their illustrious leader.

“You all know your tasks,” the warlord continued, his eyes gleaming with malice as he glared at the human metropolis. “I expect you to execute your orders quickly and efficiently, and I want you all to understand that failure, as it has been in the past, is not an option whose repercussions you want to deal with. Am I understood?”

“Sir yes, Sir!” The twelve officers shouted, snapping off quick salutes as they filed back through the formation to locate their individual platoons and prepare for their assigned tasks.

“What’s the signal?” Machamp grunted, both sets of massive, bulky arms crossed in front of his impossibly large pectoral region.

“When the screaming starts,” Wartortle snickered as a shadow fell over him and his two lieutenants. Looking up, the trio watched the amalgamation of bird Pokémon as they flooded the skies overhead, all of them donning their flight headgear as they prepared to rain hell upon the human legions. In front of three soldiers, the forward squadron burst forth—their weapons glistening in the rays of the rising son. Not even a second later, the earth beneath the feat of the warlord and his lieutenants began to shake and rumble.

“Underground squadron too?” Alakazam inquired, furrowing his brow line as he pivoted his upper body to face his chuckling leader. “You must really want to obliterate these primates, Warlord.”

“They need to be made into an example,” Wartortle snickered as the ground beneath his feet stopped sloshing and rolling around like water perturbed by the screaming antics of a child. “An example to all the other humans in this world who would dare deny our sovereignty. Like those corpses that lined the streets of Vermillion, these humans will be forever immortalized in the history books as one of the first to fall to our unstoppable might.

“That and I fucking hate all of them…” Wartortle added, chuckling softly as his ‘cavalry’ drew within striking range of the first human outliers.

At the front of the group, Corporal Scyther galloped—his chitinous legs gliding across the relatively flat terrain as his squad trailed just a few feet behind him. As the outer limits of the city grew closer, the Mantis Pokémon glanced over his shoulder one final time at the amalgamation of Pinsir, Tauros, and other Scythers that comprised his preliminary strike force.

Each and every member of the group was scarred to some degree, which was a testament to their purpose on the field of battle—to strike first and to fall first. The Pokémon who had signed up for Scyther’s squadron were the foulest and most bloodthirsty of Wartortle’s entire legions, and throughout the campaign in southern Florida, their numbers had swelled from a mere dozen to nearly fifty strong.

Turning his attention back, the Mantis Pokémon let out a high-pitched shriek and lowered his heads as a chorus of machineguns pierced the cold, morning sky.

Amidst a cacophony of machinegun fire, Corporal’s Scyther’s squadron attacked—their ferocity and determination unmatched by even the wiliest members of their human opposition. Although some members of the strike force were felled beneath the flurry of fatal gunfire, the bulk of the bloodthirsty gang sucked it up and blasted through the shoddy barricade.

With a hissing scream, Scyther pounced upon the hodgepodge of stone, wood, and steel and quickly charged up the completely vertical surface with the utmost ease. Beneath him, the Tauros whinnied loudly as they lowered their horns and stampeded straight through the human fortifications. Grinning wildly, the corporal of the strike force flipped over the edge of the barricade and buried the full length of his gleaming fore-arms blade through the abdomen of the nearest soldier.

A gurgling shriek escaped the man’s bleeding mouth as he tumbled backwards and died from the shock. Spinning around, the Mantis Pokémon batted the machinegun from the hands of another solider, and in the same fluid motion, he plunged his other bladed arm through the man’s throat—flawlessly decapitating the unfortunate hominid as tried to reel away from the deathblow. Skittering forward, the bipedal cartwheeled out of the way of a frantic attacker.

“Monster!” The man screamed as he turned around and drew his weapon up to his chest. Before he had a chance to fire on the grinning insect, a pair of barbed, ebony pincers closed in around him. With fear-wrought eyes, the army boy tried to struggle, but despite his efforts, he was plucked off the ground with the utmost ease and snapped in twain by the roaring Pinsir who had scaled up the wall in the moments prior.

“Lovely display, Private,” Scyther remarked as the Stag Beetle Pokémon bathed in the blood oozing from the dead man still clamped between his barbed horns. “Press the attack,” the corporal barked before spinning around and leaping from the elevated ledge. With a flick of his cream-colored wings, the green-skinned insect took flight toward a nearby balcony.

In the skies above the city, the aerial brigade plunged into the fray—their razor-sharp talons and bladed beaks reducing even the most trained soldiers into pulpy masses in seconds flat. A few buildings over, Jonathan Stevens ducked beneath his position’s guardrail as the ground beneath them was shaken by an unseen force. Next to the private, his comrade let out an agonized wailed and pitched forward, his limp body plunging over the railing and disappearing into the abyss forming below.

Jumping up from the ground, Jonathan looked down and watched the man smack the pavement three stories below, his neck snapping upon impact with the unforgiving concrete. As he turned to the surviving member of his fireteam, Jonathan Stevens felt a violent surge of electricity slam into him, and with a scream, the private was flung backwards to his demise against the pavement below.

“Sorry, sis,” the sizzling man groan as he plummeted into the alley that lay beyond his position. With a dull thud, the private slammed into a metal dumpster, denting the metal and snapping his spine as he landed.

For a moment, there was a nothing but blackness, but then a gasp escaped Jonathan’s chapped lips as he sat straight up out of the dent in the dumpster lid. With a surge of light, sound and color returned to private’s world as his breathing became hoarse and shallow. Groaning laboriously, Jonathan Stevens rolled off the dented dumpster and landed on the damp pavement.

“This is different…” he gasped before he slipped out of consciousness.

***​

“We can’t hold this position!” A man screamed, desperate to be heard above the roar of machineguns and the screams of the dying. All around the frightened soldier, the barricade began to shiver and creak. It took all of four seconds for the man to realize that he was already doomed. With a final, wailing cry, he plunged off the thirty-foot wall as it succumbed to the foundational damage wrought upon it by the Diglett beneath it. For the rest of the soldiers still trying to stave off Corporal Scyther’s brigade, the fall of the barricade was the culmination of their futility.

As the survivors struggled to retreat down the street, those who stood and fought lifted their forearms up an in effort to see through the dense layer of dust that now littered the street. Although they couldn’t see a thing through the fallout of the wall’s collapse, they could all hear the repetitious sound of marching closing in on their position. Near the helm of the doomed human blockade, one of the soldiers, someone no older than sixteen, lifted his rifle toward the fallen wall. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead as he moved to pull the trigger.

Thwack!

A gasp escaped the soldiers throat as his grip on his gun wavered. Looking down, he realized that there was a pair of horns jutting through his thorax. Behind him, the infuriated Tauros let out a guttural whinny and bucked its head, sending the dying adolescent hurtling through the air into the rubble of the fallen blockade. Landing on his back atop a small pile of shattered stone, the teenager began to whimper as he placed a hand on the mortal wound.

“Mama!” He wailed weakly as fresh blood began to stain the rubble beneath his broken body. His head lolled backwards as he turned his eyes toward the heavens. The lad’s skin had already taken on an ashen white hue, and if the shock didn’t kill him soon, the grievous blood loss would. “Mama!” He cried—his voice a little weaker than it had been seconds earlier. As his vision began to blur to blackness, a shadow fell over his prone form, and he could hear marching all around him.

“Shut the fuck up,” Wartortle sneered as he pulled back on the trigger. A few bullets later, the adolescent finally stopped his bitching and crying. Smiling smugly at the plumes of smoke rising from the holes in the ape’s skull, the turtle pulled out a fresh cigar and light it on a small fire that had started nearby. “Let nothing stand in our way!” He bellowed, his voice rising high in the air as his forces charged forward into the bleeding, burning city.

“The city is ours!” One of the Pokémon screamed as the bulk of the rebels bulldozed over the first blockades. Little by little, the army stationed in the city was being forced deeper into the metropolis by the invading force. Within the heart of the city, the fighting continued even fiercer than it had near the limits. Despite the roars and cheers of the Pokémon Liberation Front, the battle was still far from over—the human army was battered and broken, but they still maintained the advantage in regard to raw numbers.

As Machamp led his division straight up through the center of the city, Wartortle and Alakazam broke off, taking their half of the forces around the bulk of the opposition and toward the military base near the western quadrant of the city. As the Turtle Pokémon had planned ahead of time, he would sack the installation and hijack the human equipment for his own purposes. Oh, how lovely it would be to watch the weary primates relieved to see tanks coming to back them up only to find out too little too late who was behind the wheel!

“I love this,” Wartortle snickered, reflecting upon the battle at hand as his followers slaughtered the energy soldiers with the utmost vulgarity. Although they fought with tenacity, the Homo sapiens were being diverted to too many different fronts to prevent the reptilian insurrectionist from reaching his goal. Within a few minutes, the warlord’s column of fighters punched through another desperately erected barrier and found themselves standing in front of the installation’s front gate.

“Tear it down,” the warlord roared, prompting a small group of Fighting Pokémon to pounce upon the metal gate. A few seconds later, the reinforced steel doors swung open, revealing a military base dotted with parked vehicles, tiny barracks-like structures, and observation towers. “Charge!” The azure anarchist screamed, thrusting his hand toward the prize at hand. Unfortunately for the Turtle Pokémon, the moment his followers poured through the ruined gate, mines hidden beneath the earth blew apart the first wave of soldiers.

As the survivors of the front-end of the column panicked and broke formation, a hail of machinegun rounds from the building a few yards in front of the gate tore them to shreds—completely obliterating the scattered Pokémon at the helm of the group before they had a chance to realize what had happened. It was at that moment that the leader of the rebels realized that the humans had baited him to this location. It explained the meager resistance on route and the ease with which the gate had fallen. As Wartortle, eyes wide with frustration and hatred, started to bark orders at his startled troops, a fresh wave of the humans slammed into his flank.

“Come on!” The general screamed, trying desperately to rally his followers back into a unified unit. Try as he could, the azure anarchist’s voice only found the ears of a few soldiers amongst the pounding of the automatic machineguns and the rattle of rifles. “We have to take out those gunners!” Wartortle boomed, turning his squinted eyes in the direction of the turrets raining death upon them from within the base. Then, out of the blue, the ground at the turtle’s feet exploded upward in a geyser of dirt and fire.

Unable to see of speak, the reptilian rebel could do little but flail his limbs as he was hurled through the foggy, ashen sky. After a few seconds of airtime, he crashed into a bullet ridden amalgamation of I-beams that had been constructed within the military camp as protection of defending soldiers. A groan escaped the Pokémon’s blood-caked maw as he rolled onto his back and waited for the blurriness to subside.

“And this is where it ends,” someone send a few feet away. Before Wartortle had a chance to look, he felt his assailant press the barrel of his rifle into the back of the turtle’s cranium, right between his furry ears. Despite the predicament he was in, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front began to cackle. “What’s so funny?” The primate growled, jabbing the back of the turtle’s head with the end of his gun barrel.

“This is where the fun starts,” the warlord hissed, his eyes rolling back into his head as his body began to glow with a strange, shimmering light. Taken aback by what was unfolding in front of him, the soldier let out a surprised gasp and fell back to the comfort of two of his comrades. A scream ripped its way free from Wartortle’s maw as his body began to vibrate and change shape. Without a sound, the turtle’s light-enveloped form exploded up and outward.

As soon as it reached its desired size, the mass of light that the amphibious warrior had turned into began to take a more definitive shape. Confused and frightened by whatever was going on in front of them, the group of soldiers began to fire their rifles at the Pokémon warlord, but their effort was too little too late. With a guttural roar, the light faded to reveal the monstrosity that dwelled within Wartortle.

This is unfathomable! Wartortle’s disembodied voice mused, echoing within the mind of the monstrous Blastoise. Time for the party! The Shellfish Pokémon let out another primeval roar as he spun to face his attackers. Try as they might, their bullets merely bounced off the titan’s steel-like shell. Even the more vulnerable regions of the giant turtle’s body—those outside the shell—were impervious to the hail of gunfire.

Stepping forward, the beast reached out and closed his arm around one of the tiny little soldier boys. With a sadistic cackle, Blastoise lifted the young man up to his face and watched as he continued his fruitless efforts to stop the unstoppable. Clinking like rusting gears, the two cannons that protruded from the Pokémon’s carapace tilted inward, until they were glaring the man in the face.

“God please!” The solider screamed as his bullets ricocheted off of the turtle’s face. Like a beast freed from ages of imprisonment, two massive bullets erupted from the cannon amidst a plume of light smoke. A final, desperate cry escaped the soldier’s throat and then there was nothing left of him but a bloody stump of a torso. As if he was holding a piece of trash, Blastoise tossed away the corpse and took a lumbering step forward.

The two men who were still trying to fight the fifteen-foot monster tried to run at this point, but the first soldier was reduced the sinewy ribbons before he managed to take a single stride. As the second Homo sapiens tried to jump over a nearby barricade, he found himself on the wrong end of Blastoise’s foot. Snarling, the titanic turtle punted the pitiful little man through the wall of a small barracks facility. From the ensanguined shards of metal around the rim of the hole, it was quite obvious that the soldier was dead, but just to be sure, the Shellfish Pokémon picked up a Jeep and bowled it straight into the building.

Screaming at the top his lungs, Blastoise clenched his stout, clawed fingers into fists and began to stomp at the ground with his elephantine feet. As the ground splintered beneath the wrath of the monster, the rampaging Pokémon began to grow, and by the time he had stopped punishing the earth, he was almost three times the size he had been twenty seconds prior. By this point, the majority of the attention had shifted to the screaming, bellowing monstrosity that was kicking around trucks and ripping apart the steel observation towers that dotted the interior of the facility.

Alakazam, who was surrounded by roughly a dozen headless corpses, furrowed his brow line as his attention turned to the giant rampaging within the military installation. It took all of a microsecond for his physic capabilities to identify the massive Pokémon, and when they did, a smile spread across the mustachioed face of the lieutenant. In his opinion, it most certainly seemed that the trip to Tibet had paid off from his cohort.

“What. The. Fuck!” A soldier screamed from within the machinegun nest, his attention now on the massive creature ripping apart the base rather than the wave of Pokémon vying for entry through the gates in front of his entrenchment. Around the primate, several of his comrades were starting to flee from the installation—their faces ghostly pale as they scrambled over the mesh fences. “No way in hell this thing’s getting through me,” the soldier grumbled, biting his lower lip as he swung around the heavy turret and aimed it at the chest of the hulking beast.

The sound of a gun whirling to life caused Blastoise to discard the ruined tank and turn his attention toward the source of the noise. As he began toward the tiny gun, the Shellfish Pokémon was struck in the chest by the stream of bullets that screamed from the barrel of the turret. Unfortunately for the man in charge of operating it, his target continued to lumber toward him, seemingly unaffected by the hundreds of bullets per second slamming into his chest.

With a final, lurching step, Blastoise smacked the turret into the ground with the palm of his padded, scaly hand. Like a can made of aluminum, the entrenchment crumpled in on itself, leaving its operator to flee toward the wire fence that separate the military encampment from the city proper. Grinning barbarically, the towering Pokémon leaned back—his shoulder cannons realigning to their new target. A second later, the man and the entire section of fence he was climbing became a smoldering memory.

***​

Across the world, all eyes were on the city of St. Guinevere and the skirmish tearing the city apart from the inside. From the large, wheeled chair of his office, Senator Charmeleon Harris watched the news with a heavy frown. On his desk, a pile of letters stood over three feet tall. The documents had been issued to him by the Democratic Party and stated that they officially considered Wartortle to be the senator’s ‘chief issue.’ They also threatened to galvanize behind his chief opponent at the Democratic National Convention should he not resolve the issue in a timely manner.

“Linda,” Charmeleon asked to the intercom installed on his desk. The senator sighed heavily as a torrent of thoughts and ideas swirled in the recesses of his mind. To his dismay, none of them stood out as remarkable or containing a quality that would merit success. Despite his excellent ability to speak in public and debate, the senator was, at his core, still just someone who had grown up on a farm.

To demand that he resolve the issues with the Pokémon Liberation Front due to the lineage that he shared with the group was ludicrous. Unfortunately for Charmeleon…the party leaders knew all too well that he their star politician would do all in his power to secure his nomination. After all, the Republican Party’s presumptive nominee was an aging geezer—a derelict of an old America that was quickly fading into the books of history.

“Yes, Senator?” The assistant required, sounding just as chipper and gleeful as always. “What can I do for you?” The politician let out a sigh as he watched the most recent reports on the news. On the screen, a Blastoise of overgrown proportions was stampeding through the streets of St. Guinevere. The woman on the television was screaming about how the five hundred foot tall creature had survived a battle with a dozen F-22s without showing the least sign of fatigue.

“We’re going to St. Guinevere to parlay with Wartortle,” he finally answered, his voice sounding less confident than ever. “I’m not going to let one terrorist stop all of my supporters from being unable to change the world.”

“I’ll make some calls,” Linda replied somberly. By the tone of her voice, it was evident that the woman had sense the dismay in her boss’s request. Removing his hand from the intercom button, the senator slid off of his chair and straightened his tie.

***​

London was an inferno.

In the last few months, the town had been suffering from the blight of economic and political decay. Following the assassination of the royal family by one of Wartortle’s hitmen, the city had slowly begun to lose its grandeur amidst the collapse of government. Unable to quell its citizens from succumbing to the panic and lacking the resources to aid themselves following the European Pokémon War, the once elegant nation of England stagnated.

But as American news wrestled with the chaos that was the siege of St. Guinevere, international eyes were glued to their screens as one of the most magnificent cities across the world collapsed into ash. Moscow had been a shock in an off itself, but everyone expected something to happen to the Russians due to their shady politics following the war. The sack of London, however, had been a completely unexpected cataclysm that had already claimed the lives of millions.

Across all of England, people were fleeing for their lives—fearing that they would be the next victims of the blaze that had claimed Moscow and spread to their once marvelous little island. None of the panicked English citizens wanted to be incinerated by the bomb that had reduced the Russian capital to a black scar on the surface of the Earth. In France and mainland Europe, the panic reached catastrophic levels within hours, and as hundreds valiantly fought to quench the flames spreading across the greater London area, Subject 13 watched silently from the clouds overhead.

For the genetic experiment, the Russians had simply been a guinea pig—a means for him to test the full extent of his capabilities. With a thought, he had set the frozen capital aflame and murdered all of its inhabitants. Even the English and their pitiful civilization were just stepping stones for the rest of the world that lie beyond the seas and oceans of the planet. As he watched the fire, however, Subject 13 couldn’t help but sense the events of St. Guinevere.

Somewhere across the vastness of the Atlantic, hundreds of lives were being snuffed out of existence. Focusing his mind, the clone began to see the events as if he was standing in the epicenter of them. It was an army of Pokémon—creatures that shared his genetic heritage. They were dismantling a far smaller city of Homo sapiens and seemed rather invigorated with their slaughter. It was a pity for them that Subject 13 would purify them along with the entire world before they had a chance to reach their aspirations.

But the grunts were not the source of the bizarre signal that the cloned creature had detected. At the helm of the group, there was some sort of titanic aberration that emanated a strange sort of power. Whilst similar to the other Pokémon rampaging through the city, the beast had a taint of a far greater power about him. Whatever the source or reasoning behind the strange infusion of power, it mesmerized Subject 13...very much so actually.

Scowling apathetically, the clone turned his attention back to the crumbling city beneath him. He had quickly lost his interest in the burning of his world, so with great disgust, Subject 13 willed that the old city be no more. At that instant, the earth upon which London stood crumbled, bringing the city and all of its would be saviors into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

***​

All around Blastoise, the wreckage of the feeble human city lay, shrouded in a dense layer of smog and flame. Within ten minutes, the Shellfish Pokémon had razed the city and shattered the large detachment of soldiers stationed to protect it. To the glee of the monster, there had been many attempts to thwart his dominion over the Homo sapiens.

But Blastoise had proven his superiority over the filthy, primate scum. He had torn their elite fighters like they were paper airplanes, and he had crushed the strongest of their tanks beneath his feet like aluminum cans. The foot soldiers had been swatted and stomped like the ants they were, and even the strongest and mightiest examples of the human’s architectural knowledge had been sundered liked houses of cards. The whole thing was a mockery of the Shellfish Pokémon’s awesome might.

Unfortunately for leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front, the high-speed thrill ride was reaching its conclusion, and with a violent scream of denial, Blastoise collapsed into a mass of shimmering light. A few seconds later, a bloody, bruised Wartortle liberated himself from the building that he had fallen against a prior to the devolution. Although moment’s prior he had been all but immortal, the warlord now felt nothing but an overwhelming ache in every single bone and muscle that comprised his battered body.

Rising from the ruins, the warlord took a labored step forward, his entire body throbbing in unadulterated agony as he advanced down the pile of twisted rubble and to the fissured street corner. With a hearty sigh, the azure anarchist lifted his head—his eyes widened as they took in the massive scale of the hell he had wrought upon the once eloquent city of St. Guinevere. The metropolis’s once sprawling cityscape had been sundered, and the thick layer of soot and smoke had darkened even the magnificence of the sun.

“And so, the world of man shall end in flames,” Wartortle snarled, turning his attention toward a series of explosions down the road. With any luck, they were his soldiers and not a pocket of human resistance trying to make their glorious final stand. Flexing in his clawed digits, the Turtle Pokémon marched in the direction of the fire, his eyes narrowed as a vein in his neck pulsed.

“Monster!” The voice came from a nearby alleyway, but as the warlord pivoted around, he was tackled by a man dressed in tattered military fatigues. The two combatants hit the ground hard and rolled apart—their mutually bruised bodies running on nothing at this point but an excess of adrenaline and hatred. “You’re mine,” the soldier boy roared, lunging off the ground and diving toward the beleaguered Pokémon. Grunting in frustration, Wartortle flung his weight to his side and managed to roll out of the trajectory of an oncoming boot.

“Fucking Homo sapiens!” Snapped the amphibious general as he stumbled up to a standing position and turned to face the man. The human bore several bloody wounds, most of which centralized around his chest and face. Where there should have been an ear, there was nothing more than a bloody lump of ruined cartilage—an indicator of the failed battles that the boy had fought over the span of the day. “You’re out of your league,” the turtle added as his temples began to pulse.

“I can’t be stopped!” The monkey gasped before dropping his head and charging at the bane of his species. Having had a chance to collect himself, Wartortle was able to easily sidestep the man’s flustered attack, and with a snarl, the Turtle Pokémon slammed his foot into the human’s knee. A frustrated gasp escaped the soldier boy’s maw as he hit the ground with a gruesome sounding smack.

“I beg to differ,” the revolutionary remarked, leaning down next to the crippled little primate. With a swift flick of his hands, Wartortle snapped the grunt’s neck back until it the skin threatened to rip. Satisfied with the death of the overzealous soldier, the Pokémon kicked the corpse aside and went off to join his followers and fellow brothers-in-arms. As the warlord left the scene, however, the body of the young human twitched once and then his neck popped back into place.

Upon making it to his feet, the defeated and humiliated Jonathan Steven’s bit his bottom lip and screamed into his closed mouth as his victorious opponent vanished into the fallout. By the time that the private had finished his tangent, he had bite clean through his lip.
 

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Chapter 4: Rainmaker

Two months had transpired since Wartortle had been driven deep underground from the threat of assassins hired by the United States’ government—a course of action supported by most prominent politicians, including Charmeleon Harris. In that timeframe, the Pokémon senator from Illinois had managed to galvanize any of his naysayers into one of the most efficient political coalitions of the common age. With the Democratic Party wholly unified behind their unorthodox candidate and the terrorist actions of the Pokémon Liberation Front stalled by the rumored disappearance of their charismatic leader, the nations turned its eyes to the conventions to be held in the coming weeks.

But even as the rest of the world turned its eyes away from the Pokémon nation of Kanto, the insurrectionists bided their time. Realizing that the movement was nothing without its leader, Alakazam was quick to put several decoys into place as the Research and Development division slaved away trying to locate their missing warlord. Despite the efforts of the immensely powerful physic, Wartortle’s capital of Antioch began to fall apart as follower after follower fled the tense situation in the city in order to find solace with Senator Charmeleon Harris’ peaceful ideology.

Those who weren’t gifted with minds capable of advanced logic and scheming gave themselves a cause with which to occupy their faltering fervor. Wartortle’s ‘Left-hand’—the hulking Machamp—responded to his leader’s apparent abduction by rallying his troops and taking them on an island-hopping campaign which found them battling natives on both the Florida Keys and the nations of the Caribbean Sea.

Over the course of June and July, the brutal lieutenant crushed any resistance to the Pokémon occupation of every island he visited. By the middle of July, the Powerhouse Pokémon claimed his most illustrious prize yet when his soldiers finally broke the human resistance at Havana and burned the city to the ground in one of the bloodiest conflicts of the last two years. Although the siege had lasted nearly a month, the populace was ‘quelled’ in a little less than three hours.

Despite the heavy loss of life in the Caribbean, little was done to stall the slaughter and conquest of the poor island nations. Americans were all too busy with their own internal affairs and the upcoming conventions to risk demoralizing their population with news of the genocide in the Caribbean. And with Europe now a virtually desolate realm, there were no superpowers left to handle the Poké-terrorism that was slowly beginning to spread its destruction to realms outside of American borders (the nations of the Eastern Hemisphere had stated prior to the European Wars that they would not aid their Western neighbors in the Pokémon crises).

So, whilst the nation of Kanto itself began to rot and falter without the presence of Wartortle, the Turtle Pokémon’s military flourished—spreading his message even as his whereabouts continued to be a mystery. With the collapse of Cuba, the Gulf of Mexico fell under the country’s control, which meant that the Pokémon Liberation Front’s naval forces began to grow, unseen by human eyes, at an almost exponential rate.

Having conquered the large American naval base at Guantanamo Bay, Machamp quietly converted it into the staging grounds for the construction of a fleet. Within weeks, the Powerhouse Pokémon took nearly two thousand fresh recruits and whipped them into heavily trained soldiers just as ruthless and bloodthirsty as their reptilian general. By the end of August, Machamp left Cuba, leaving his naval forces under the watchful eyes of Sergeant Scyther and the newly appointed Rear Admiral Poliwrath.

***​

“Lieutenant!” A voice shouted from the throng of Pokémon moving about within the walls of Antioch’s town square, prompting Alakazam to come to a halt and pivot to face his oncoming guest.

“What is it, Doctor?” The Psi Pokémon inquired upon noticing that it was Dr. Pikachu who was bumping and shoving his way through the crowd of civilians. After a few more moments of fighting through the madness, the scientist let out a sigh and leaned forward, his tiny hands smacking his knees as he took a moment to catch his breath.

“He’s back,” the Mouse Pokémon spoke, his breathing still labored as he continued to refill his lungs with fresh air. “He’s back in his chambers… should I take you there?” As he reached the end of his remark, the scientist glanced up from the ground and was surprised to notice that Alakazam was already gone. “I wish I could teleport like that,” Dr. Pikachu sighed, rolling his eyes as he returned to a fully vertical stance and vanished back into the throng of happy-go-lucky civilians.

“Warlord?” The physic muttered as his body popped into existence in the dimly light chambers of his superior officer. The mustachioed Pokémon furrowed his brow line as he tried to examine the room for his reptilian leader.

“It was that senator,” Wartortle suddenly spoke, his expression grim as he appeared on the nearby flight of stairs. With a heavy frown on his face, the Leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front slowly descended the staircase, his right-hand gliding smoothly down the polished veneer of the banister. “I know it was his idea for them to send those assassins and thugs. I’m sorry that I was gone without a trace, but they were on to me. Everything at my disposal was bugged or compromised, so I had to go deep to avoid their web. But no matter what is thrown at me, I shall never falter.

“Senator Harris and the rest of those fools in Washington made one fatal flaw in their little scheme this summer,” Wartortle laughed as he reached the landing at the bottom of the staircase and turned his gleaming eyes toward the caramel-skinned physic. “They didn’t hire someone good enough,” the turtle snickered, flashing a toothy grin as he walked toward the large bay window at the back of his private chambers. “Well, it would seem that it is only right to strike back at the senator and the government he seeks to represent. Perhaps it is time for the world to see who has the stronger message?

“I want to see if his dream of sugarplum fairies and unity between the species is something more than just a delusion implanted in him by the foul influence of humanity,” the reptile muttered as he pushed open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. With a smile, he placed his hands upon the metal railing and stared out across the amalgamation of residential structures sprawled out beneath him. “He shall be educated, my dear lieutenant, on the true destiny of our species. Our brother has been tainted by his upbringing, and I will see to it that he is liberated from his slavery. For tonight, my brother, a most glorious event has transpired,” the turtle muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the Psi Pokémon.

“Wartortle has come home!”

***​

The world was quiet.

The leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front stood in silence as he stared out across the throng of huts and thatched structures that made up his illustrious capital city. In his absence, things had become sluggish… stagnated. Some of his citizens had fled to the north to hide amongst the politicians and the bureaucrats. And who would really blame them? With the Presidential elections now only a little over two weeks away, the atmosphere was becoming increasingly Pokémon friendly. But it was all a farce! A clever ploy to pull the teeth out of Wartortle’s movement on at a time.

“My people will never become political slaves,” the Turtle Pokémon whispered as he squeezed his taut, clawed digits around the cold steel of his balustrade. Beneath the scowling general’s headquarters, the world slept, completely oblivious to the machinations that were unfolding miles north in the cold, dreary waters of the east coast. In a satellite meeting with his other lieutenants and high-ranking subordinate officers; Wartortle had organized a campaign that would rustle his foes from the bliss they had been indulging upon these last few months.

“They shall remember tomorrow for the rest of their days,” the general grinned as he tenderly rested his right palm against the teleportation wristlet that he’d stolen from the operatives who’d tried to take him into custody. Amidst his hiatus, Wartortle had utilized the bizarre piece of technology to ‘broaden his horizons’ so to speak. He had come to realize that his world was but one of many that dotted the cosmos, and given time, the Turtle Pokémon would see to it that all of them were burnt to ash.

“Warlord,” Alakazam’s words pre-empted is arrival behind his illustrious leader by a moment or two. Glancing over his shoulder, Wartortle acknowledged his lieutenant with a slight nod and then returned his gaze to the primitive cityscape laid out beneath him. “All of the preparations have been made for the assault,” the Psi Pokémon instructed, his wide smile hidden beneath his oversized mustache.

With a nod, the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front stepped back toward the balcony that overlooked the main square of Antioch. Aside from the standard collection of anti-missile sentries, the city itself was nearly bare. Shriveled leaves of various shades skittered across the hardened earth as a brisk wind wiped through the collection of houses. Prior to his departure, the square would have been thick with Pokémon, all smiling and full of violent glee.

“This will teach them to underestimate me.” The growl was just loud enough for Alakazam to make out, but the turtle’s lieutenant made no response. Clasping his hands around the balcony, Wartortle rattled the steel and clenched his teeth in fury. “Ready the ships. I want enough time to move everything in place for the breakthrough.”

“Yes, Warlord.”

***​

November 5, 11:25 PM EST.

“Yes, Senator, it was a stupendous contest … Don’t worry, I look forward to working with you and the rest of the Senate as we step out into a new age … Thank you, Senator. Take care.”

Smiling on last time into the phone receiver, Senator Charmeleon Harris placed it back onto its cradle and turned around to face the rest of the room. The moment the phone began to thrill, the throng of campaign officials and supporters had fallen silent. At the head of the room, a giant map of the United States had been mounted to the wall. Large blue and red thumbtacks dotted the map, denoting how many delegates had been won in each state by the two dominant parties.

Next to the map, a simple white board listed Senator Harris and his opponent above two numbers. For the last twenty minutes, the cramped office in Chicago’s downtown district had been nervous as returns from the West Coast began to pour in following the closure of the polls.

Someone near the back of the crowd suddenly raised their voice and asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Who was it?”

“Ladies and gentlemen…” the Pokémon, dressed in a business suit that was dotted with perspiration, sucked in a deep breath of air before addressing his closest friends and political allies. “The esteemed senator from the southwest has just conceded the election. We’ve won.”

At that, the entire room erupted into an utterly overwhelming myriad of screams, shouts, and tears of excitement. Four of five supports swarmed the man who would become their President in only a few short months. With a wide grin on his visage, the Pokémon began to slowly process to shaking hands and snapping off images to commemorate the event. The Senator from Illinois ate it all up, knowing far too well that his coworkers and he had forever shattered a long-standing institution of discrimination and started the country they loved so much on the road toward complete social and civil rights for all individuals regardless of their species.

As he neared the front end of the room, the senator bumped into Linda Coburn, who had taken a trip to the bathroom prior to the phone call that heralded her boss’ inevitable rise to the Presidency. When their gaze met, Senator Charmeleon gently excused himself from the presence of a member of Congress and made a beeline for the smiling woman. Extending his arms, he scooped her up and spun her for a few moments before plopping her back down onto her heels. Caught off guard by the overload of affection and spinning, Linda swayed on her feet for a few moments before being stabilized by her boss.

“You did it!” She finally managed to say as people began to crowd around them and continue their endless, congratulatory shouts and semi-demands for handshakes. The senator responded with a nod as he turned to accept a furious handshake from one of his supporters in the Midwest. Before the Pokémon could pivot to reciprocate another show of congratulations, the entire building shuddered and the lights flickered for a few moments. Like a glass of ice water to the face, the lapse in power brought the jubilation and tomfoolery to a halt. Almost immediately, people began to either pour outside or draw their cell phones.

“What’s going on?” Senator Charmeleon asked to a man who had already reached someone on his mobile phone.

“Apparently a terrorist blew up the office down the block, Senator.” The campaign worker’s words were almost too quick to understand.

“Who?” Now it was Linda’s turn to ask questions to the college student.

The young man asked the question and after a beat, the color drained from his face. “Apparently, they were Poké-terrorists, Ma’am. A group of them started attacking some buildings a block up…”

A frown spread across the soon-to-be President-Elect’s smooth visage. Those extremists were after me. After clearing his throat, the red reptile placed a hand on the student’s shoulder. “We’re all right. We proved tonight that the people of our country want change—want…peace.” Even as the words left his mouth, the senator couldn’t help but feel a heavy weight descend on his heart. Even if the terrorists had failed to hit their target, they had nonetheless given Charmeleon’s presidency its first stain.

But all this begged the question: Why now? The extremists’ movements had all but ground to a halt for most of the spring and summer. The only thing that kept the insurrectionists in Florida alive was their unrelenting network of anti-missile and anti-aircraft coverage. With Wartortle still hiding in a bunker somewhere, what would get them all antsy to return to violence of such caliber?

Unless…

***​

It was a cold night.

Had Wartortle lacked his intrinsic defense against the cold, he would have been unable to remain out in the frozen waters of the Atlantic Ocean without a nice, cuddly parka. Fortunately for the leader of the Pokémon Liberation Front, the cold was nothing but an awkward sensation, and the subzero wind was only a nuisance, nothing more. The ‘barges’ of soldiers who lacked—or even were vulnerable—to such cold waters were covered in thick tarps and shielded to prevent waves from crashing down on top of them. From his own barge, a venerable Lapras, Wartortle watched as the bridge drew closer on the horizon.

“We’ve almost there, General.” The gruff, highlander accent was that of the Rear Admiral Poliwrath. “We will rise up from the depths and drag all their soldiers in the dark abyss!” A smile spread across Wartortle’s visage as he turned to look at the gruff, perpetually angry (and oddly classified) ‘Tadpole’ Pokémon. When Machamp had told the turtle about the naval force he had created and the firebrand he had selected to oversee its training and operations, Wartortle had initially been worried. Upon meeting the surly bastard in charge of all the ‘mother fucking tadpoles and pollywogs,’ the reptilian revolutionist’s doubts melted away like April snow.

A look over the warlord’s shoulders revealed the enormity of their invasion force. As far as his keen eyes could see, the rolling ocean was dotted with other Transport Pokémon. Amidst the floating Pokémon, there were smaller groups of troops on top of numerous Tentacruel. Those large cephalopods were supported by a group of Tentacool. Near Wartortle and in other places he couldn’t spot, Dewgong and Seel swam just below the surface of the rolling ocean. The Sea Lion Pokémon were the closest thing the makeshift navy had to long-range artillery given the Lapras and their lack of maneuverability. Furthermore, every ‘battery’ was accompanied by a flying Pokémon to provide anti-air cover.

Behind the head of the attack force, a series of Wailord and their younger forms carried the bulk of the troops that would be landing on the shores near Hampton Roads. Behind the hulking whales, another line of Lapras were coupled with more soldiers and more ‘artillery.’ The final wave was ordered to remain stationary unless the tide turned against the rest of the armada. In that event, they would either serve as the cavalry or the last gasp.

I wonder how many of them are out there… Wartortle had never learned the exact number, only that it was less than a division. The whole network of soldiers was being masked by an experienced group of psychics trained specifically to trick radar and sonar. Based on the lack of shells exploding around them and fighters screaming through the thick clouds, the reptile wagered Alakazam had taught his underlings well.

“Are you certain the infantry on land will be able to adhere to the timetable?” Poliwrath conveyed not fear or apprehension in his words—only his desire to know how hard and how long his pollywogs would be in combat alone.

“Machamp will not me down.” Wartortle betrayed nothing despite knowing full-well that the attack would be unable to be won in the water. Without the assistance of Machamp’s divisions, they would all be dead in the water by noon. “Where’s that telepath.”

Here, Warlord. Turning around, Wartortle nodded at the Abra as it walked out from the line of anxious soldiers and snapped off a salute. The Turtle Pokémon returned to motion and gestured for the small-statured psychic to join him at the front of the Lapras. Although the Transport Pokémon had been trained to keep their eyes straight ahead, he couldn’t help but spy a glance over his shoulder. Given the gravity of the situation, Admiral Poliwrath opted to let it slide until after the attack.

“All right, Corporal, do you think you can handle transmitting a message to the bulk of the navy?”

Yes, Warlord. A grin spread across Wartortle’s blue-skinned countenance as he placed a palm on the top of the Psi Pokémon’s head.

Attention all soldiers and ferries. Halt immediately. The general stole a glance to his left to watch as the line of Lapras ground to a quick stop in the water. We will commence initial bombardment and proceed to advance straight into the harbor. For all you Transport Pokémon, your top priority is to get your squad or team members onto land. I’m not saying you can’t blast apart some of those bastards but don’t get stupid. For you artillery folks, you’re simply to fire at will, and I want fliers to scramble the moment you hear or are alerted about enemy aircraft. Hesitation will get you and your water-restricted allies killed.

Whailord—your marine officer knows when the advance. Listen to him and waste no time in reaching a disembarking point. They will know the spots to look for during your phase of the operation.

Now we have the fun part. All Lapras…take aim!


At that order, the Lapras upon which Wartortle stood and countless others all lifted their heads and aimed them at the vague, gray shapes that floated just a few hundred meters toward the horizon.

Ready!

Jaws fell open. Globes of crackling, whirling ice particles formed in the Transport Pokémon’s opened mouths. At this moment, Wartortle stole a glance at Admiral Poliwrath, who stood poised like a rapid animal.

Open fire!

***

Seaman First Class Eric Ericson had the unpleasant duty of being onboard the USS Texas while she was marooned in harbor. More awkward than being stuck on the old scrap heap all day was having to mop and scrub her decks in the wee hours of the morning while the officers and chiefs stood around killing time. This pre-dawn mopping was the same as the last ninety, except for the bizarre lights that suddenly began sparkling on the horizon.

Hot damn… you don’t see that everyday. Although he continued to mop, the sailor edged closer to the railing to get a closer look at the sparkling lights. As he squinted to see better in the thick fog, he noticed a very bizarre uniform nature to the white and blue globs. They all seemed to be lined up in a neat little row. It reminded the seaman of a show he had watched on television a few years back. What show was that? Something with Pokém—oh no…

The realization hit Eric Ericson like a sack of bricks. His eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped away as he threw the mop aside, catching the attention of a few nearby officers as it smacked against the deck.

“We’re under attack!”

No sooner had the words left the sailors mouth when the USS Texas and several of its neighbors were hit by a barrage of ice beams. Like axes bearing down on wood, the rays punched through several layers of dense steel, infecting the area around the initial impact site with a fatal brittleness. The concussive impact hurtled everyone on deck off their feet, and in the case of a few unlucky sailors, it sent them tumbling to their dooms in the frigid waters of the bay.

Eric Ericson, as unlucky as he had been with winding up on ship duty, managed to remain on a horizontal surface during the initial bombardment. With the aid of a nearby structure, he pulled himself up to his feet and took off toward the nearest piece of weaponry even as he felt the ship begin to list. One leap took him into the seat off the gun piece, and as he spun it to bear in the direction of the attackers, the base of the weapon took a direct hit. The seaman was thrown violently against the metal chair, and save for a brief sensation of cold, he never felt a thing again.
 
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