5

Directions

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokémon, which is unfortunate because if I did I'd make it really violent and give the animators higher wages as long as they put more advantage into fps. I would also not allow merchandise, not allow dubs (only subtitles), and merge with . . . Never mind.

Note: I took one really good yet sick line from a rather good yet sick person named "Alliya". I give her credit for that line, she would know what it is.

Anonymous location- Anonymous time

I'm not quite fond of him, you know.

Unlike most of MY kind, I never liked his sort of kind.

. . .

Why? you may ask me.

My response: he's too fucking unforgiving ­ Not to us, you see; he treats us sufficently well; lets us rule in our seperate way; only letting him rule us in his dictatorship because we wanted him to (just because he "liberated us"; oh, the fools that we Pokémon are!) ­ but his difficulties (not at all physical) lie with the fates of the constantly-warring Humans.

When I talk to him, he's friendly in a quiet, passive way. When a Human of any kind is talking to him, though . . . It must be some sort of grudge. Whatever; he opens up to them. Opening up his psychological differences; showing the subject his collection of rotting bodies (or at least one badly-off corpse), killing him/her and adding his/her body to the pile. It is mass slaughter- no, wait. It can't be mass slaughter; it is too nice a description. Mass murder, perhaps? Aw, fuck; whatever; I made my point (hopefully).

Ash was the only exception here. I noticed psychic energy from my quarters when the poor brat encountered him ­ I am no psychic-type per se (Chansey normal-type), but my secondary power was certainly good enough to notice THAT ­ and I approached the epicenter to find that poor piss lying on the flat ground. He was gone, but I know that he did it. My only question is why he didn't just kill him right there. Sighing, I did something that the old me wouldn't have done: I teleported Ash to his people.

I don't know if he is alive or dead now, but quite honestly I had more important things to worry about. Besides, Ash is a bastard. The only reason why I didn't leave him to die was because he was a Human bastard. I did what I had to do.

Although the Humans neighbouring us at Pallet Town (we live at Cinnabar; it is our not-so-happy home) and also uncomfortably close to him are currently engaged in bitter conflict among themselves, I can't help but pity the ones who remind me of me. Perhaps he is against them because of their gutsy fierceness. No good reason, methinks, to have a bitter passion to kill every single one. They would probably be more civilised than us if they only brushed up their character.

Of course, they have guns and we don't. They waste their ammo on eachother. Big fucking shame.

Knowing this, you would most likely think that there are other rebels. And yes, you are right. But if I supported them and they won, he would die but the Human race would get fucked up (The End, whoop-de-doo). They are no better than he is. But otherwise?

. . . Because I hate their way of thinking . . .

. . . I hate their one-mindedness . . .

. . . And I hate their "Oh, I'm a rebel. Aren't I cute?"edness.

Their rebellious nature comes with a waaaay oversized and overagressive ego. Fighting with them means blowing shit up and attacking him with a subatomic psychic blast that would destroy too much. Any quarter-assed dolt ­ with half a mind or less ­ can mimic their hippocracies over and over again to fit in perfectly well. This leads me to suspicion that there could be spies, but I know that if a spy was caught against this bunch they would kill the intruder so much that they would accidentally kill themselves in the confusion.

Him ­ that "Mewtwo" thing ­ should be able to crush a rebellion if he was able to kill that fucked-up guy with the bazooka a couple of days ago. I can really imagine it all right now.

What I see in my thoughts at this moment is rather obvious.

. . .

But wait! There's more! Did I mention a subatomic psychic blast yet? I wasn't kidding. The other rebels treat me well (they think that I'm loyal to them; HA!) and I know their plans. Because of that, my present location is no longer my quarters.

It is at the edge of the grassland ­ reaching into the forest ­ about ten kilometres away from our main city. If they were right and sucessfull in their work, they will kill him. And about a good thousand Pokémon or two.

I think that the Humans may have a select amount of sense. I shall find a wild Pokémon in the forest as a bodyguard before teleporting to one of their scraps of territory.

. . .

Community Base B7 located under [Viridian City] - 20:00

Blaine cautiously moved through the long, narrow corridor just past the elevator. He approached a door at the end, step-by-tense-step. His footsteps echoed throughout the structure, each patter making him gradually feel more and more nervous. Whenever his foot hit the floor, he stopped for a second to look to his left, before glancing to his right. Blaine listened for footsteps, clenching his automatic D5K protectively. Each process was bit-by-bit. Blaine would repeat the process again and again as he moved further and further forward. Blaine's palms sweated anxiously.

And all for some food. How things have changed!

Blaine was just starting to feel the effects of the testocerone that he had taken, as well as the other hormones. He didn't take the insilin because he knew that OD'ing on it meant death. That medikit that he had found in the ditch may well have proven life-saving; starting a diet of hormones to reverse his age over time.

Imagine being 38 years of age again, Blaine thought, kind of reassuring there considering what I'll run into.

There were two open rooms ahead of Blaine at either side of the long corridor, not including a wooden door that blocked the room straight ahead. These were the only rooms that Blaine hadn't yet looked into. Carefully, nervously, Blaine edged closer to the side rooms. Now he tasted smoke. Now he tasted death.

Reacting to his immediate senses, Blaine stopped in his tracks. He looked to his left and to his right once again, but learned nothing from his sight; he still wasn't at the two last side rooms yet. He heard, though. So he listened.

A muffled, scared voice coming from the room to his left squeaked, "mph! Bhm hm mmm! MMM!"

After each complaint, a relatively hoarser voice coming from the room to his right grumbled, "shut up . . . Shut up . . ."

Blaine decided to take his chances with those observations. He charged to the room to his right, keeping his weapon poised in front of him. As he entered, the face of someone . . . From the corner of his eye . . .

BANG

Blaine was stunned. He clutched the spot where he was hit. But then he realized-

BANG

Another bullet, another empty shell 'tinkling' on the ground. Blaine realized something: he had a bullet-proof vest on. Blaine felt a strong pressure, but no damage was done.

Still, Blaine had to act fast; or at least he reckoned so.

BANG

This one missed Blaine, but it missed his head. And there was no kevlar on the face. Blaine hastily turned to where the noises of gunfire came from and looked down to someone sitting on a wodden seat. Blaine's eyes focused through the barrel of a small dark pistol. Blaine aimed at the brown-haired target and aimed wherever he could.

As trigger was squeezed, blood was splattered. As D5k spat, body was shaken. Blood, when no longer pumping, squeezed out of concealed bulletholes in large thick lumps. Smoke rose, empty shells fell. The man who had been firing at Blaine spat out flooding blood (or perhaps, coughed or puked) as a last manuver before inevitably shutting down.

After morbidity, the limp arms of Gary hung loose and dropped the pistol. As the handgun hit the ground, it fired for the last time: shooting at nothing, hitting nothing but the enduring concrete wall.

As if a work of brutal art, Gary lay forward on his chair, once with a spinal-injury handicap and now with the handicap of being dead. His eyes: staring eerily into space. His legs: just like before, poised and steady on the floor. His chest: beyond recognition. Sitting idle in a place of confusion, smoke, red blood and Human death.

Blaine turned away from the spectacle to look behind him.

The room at the left side of the corridor was now right in the direct center of Blaine's vision and it was a definite sight.

Bodies. Fresh bodies, Blaine realised. At the room opposite it seems, and in my plain old sight too.

Blaine couldn't count all the bloodied rags of limp Human flesh. The bodies were piled up: 3-4 on top of the other 3-4 to approximate. In the shape of a poorly-made version of a pyramid, they lay on whatever supported them; be it flesh or be it well-stained concrete. Pistols were on some of their hands, still holding weapons with their guard being their own still eerie nature. They were just beginning to let out the repellant of smell.

The muffled yelling became louder. It wasn't coming from the pile of bodies (even Blaine wouldn't have done that with the dead), so Blaine kept looking around the room. At first, the bodies seemed to be the only things present as they certainly stood out. However, this was not the case. A perfectly alive male Community soldier lay bound and gagged on the floor.

He was a man, probably into his thirties by his very facial looks. A thin man he was indeed, with gray-like hair and a similar-looking beard. He kicked the concrete constantly to catch Blaine's attention. A tad of dust rose as he kicked the wall each time. When Blaine looked directly at him, the man stopped and tried to smile. It was quite obvious what he wanted Blaine to do.

Blaine decided not to simply take the bounds off so fast now. He first wanted to see them. Blaine knelt down to find that the man's arms and legs were tied together by what was, so Blaine guessed, fire hose. (It was what Blaine thought that he himself would do.) The man had some thick tape strapped over his mouth. It looked like an overall unimaginative way to tie someone up. Whatever; it seemed to be very effective in conclusion.

Blaine nodded to himself that now was the more proper cue to take it off, now that he was reasssured that it wasn't fake. First Blaine ripped off the tape. A brief moment of pain flashed through the other man, but it stopped. Now he could talk.

It took him a short second to realise that. "I heard gunfire, at the room opposite."

Blaine knew what the other man was getting at, but he continued to work at untying the bounds on his wrists. The man cooperated and didn't budge a muscle on his arms, but he still talked.

"Was it you?" the man asked.

"Yes," Blaine confessed, undoing the arms at the moment. ". . . No more questions like that here; you seem a tad edgy in this place. My name is . . ."

Blaine didn't know what to say for his name. If he said Blaine, the man would know about him except for what the League want him dead for. If he stated a fake name, if the man survived he may think of the fake name seriously for a very long time. Blaine was now working on the man's legs.

The man stared into space, before staring at a League shirt.

"League," the man breathed.

Blaine sighed. He guessed that now was the time to confess. "My name is Blaine, and I've been framed for genocidal acts. I am now being hunted down by any League man in the vicinity."

"How do I know that?" the man asked softly, as if trying to be smart.

"You heard gunfire at the room opposite," Blaine explained. The man kept quiet.

"Now, if you were to tell me, by any chance, your name." Blaine didn't know if that was a question or a statement, but what was said was said.

"My name is Butch. I'm a Community B7 . . ."

"-Now Butch, I'd like you to save the talk and tell me what happened here."

"I think there's been another invasion. Some League guys took us by surprise. Am I the only one left?"

The last of the wire was free from Butch's legs now; he was free to move. Blaine moved back a bit to let some room in for Butch to stand up.

"I came here for food, but it seems like a bad time," Blaine explained, "but answer my question: where is the mess hall?"

"What's a mess hall?"

Blaine looked at Butch strangely.

"Sorry, thought you was sarcastic but then again, you League guys have everything. The main storage room has some half-Growlithe, half-Human food for your very own delight."

"Storage room," Blaine clarified. He didn't take Butch humorously but there was still something about him . . .

Butch nodded and left the room hastily; no matter how much Butch could shrug off things, there was nothing like the taste of death. Blaine half-watched Butch's back; half-watched Butch's movement to the door.

"In order to get there," Butch explained, "you'll have to go through the control room past that door, then turn right; away from the power generator."

Butch twisted the knob of the door at the end of the hallway. It swung open, revealing a bright ocragonal room that spread out before the thin corridor.

"Well, then." Butch put his hands on his hips. "Do the honours?"

Blaine found something about Butch interesting, but he couldn't quite place it. However, he was still able to find him suspicious.

"Just one minute," Blaine back-talked, "why are you so nice to me?"

"Hey there, as long as you aren't telling me to die or if I'm not ordered to kill you . . ."

"No bullshit. Listen here: I've found some anti-aging hormones today, and the testocerone is just beginning to make me an ass. You're no ass, I know; don't arouse my suspicions or I'll make you your ass."

Butch rolled his eyes. "Look, don't threaten me with shit. I'm helping you because you shot the enemy, that's all. Okay, man?"

Blaine suddenly felt down. He wondered why the testocerone would make him do that. Then he realised something. Blaine swallowed hard.

"Okay, Butch. But, er . . . Never mind." Blaine's cool was being compromised.

"I think you've OD'd on manliness, fella," Butch snided. Blaine grunted warily yet warningly back.

"Were you like this before Mewtwo executed his invasion and before the war began?" Blaine asked, sighing.

Butch shook his head slightly. "Not really." He didn't seem very eager to talk about it. Blaine didn't (and couldn't) blame him.

Blaine made his entrance heading towards one of the bodies at a random computer to his left. His first step landed on a-

"Aw, shit!" Butch yelled as a brick tied to the ceiling flew past his face, "looks like they've armed some sort of-"

Alarms rang. The brick hung still millimetres from Butch's right temple before snapping and clashing on the concrete.

"-A trap."

Blaine no longer worried about being attracted to a man almost half his age now; his heart stopped beating for a second at the prospect of getting caught by the League and shot. Blaine made his heart beat again at the thought of a plan of action.

Butch began to walk quickly to a door at the other side of the control room.

"No!" Blaine yelled, grabbing Butch's arm. "We can ambush them from here. Get a gun; there must be one here somewhere."

"Uh, okay," Butch quickly replied. He glanced from left to right to catch sight of a few bodies lying beside a chair facing a computer. There were two computers at the room; one at the left side, one at the right.

Butch half-leaped to the bodies and searched for a weapon. There were three weapons; one for each body: an AK-47, a Phantom and a Cougar Magnum. Butch picked up the large gray Phantom considering its clip, not taking to account that it may have been emptied a bit in the conflict.

"See anything there?" Blaine asked, taking up an ambush position beside the open door.

"Three bodies. Three loaded bodies; whew. Want any of these?"

"D5k is good enough for me," Blaine retorted. He wondered why Butch was taking this casually.

He also wondered why he wondered about Butch- until they both heard a sound; the sound of a platform dropping. "Here they come," Blaine stated. "Close the door when I say so."

Butch nodded and took him and his Phantom behind the door's bulk, out of the view of anyone in the corridor.

Blaine swallowed hard and waited for the League.

They both heard voices from the hallway.

"They can't be far," a feminine voice confirmed.

"We know that, but are they tricking us?" An annoyed-sounding aging man's voice, this time. "Well, I hope grandson Gary's okay."

Blaine shivered. It was definitely Dr. Oak. If there was one person in the world that he did not want to kill, it was Oak. But, like many things, he shrugged that off.

"This way. I'll come first." That female voice again. She was, if Blaine heard her right, uncomfortably near.

Blaine seen her come in; a tall woman with a silenced D5k. She had her back turned to them and she basically leapt in.

Wrong move, Blaine chided.

"Now," Blaine ordered.

Butch slammed the door shut. Blaine aimed the gun at the woman's head.

She turned around on a dime. "Wha-"

Loud cracks resounded around the room. The bullets were, Blaine graphically realised as he remembered Gary's chest, dumdummed; five bullets entered the thin line of the woman's skin before penetrating her cranium. The bullets reacted to the impact; they detonated just like nukes turning into half-beautiful mushroom clouds. That increased the space the .22 bullet took in her skull.

It was as if Blaine had to look; had to see her outer bones break apart; had to see her skin ripple; had to see the blood splatter onto whatever surrounded her head; had to see her brain dice and die. Her spine cracked, sending her half-head dropping to the ground helplessly. The metal shine of the dumdums could be seen glittering as her gore fell. Her body collapsed after her head, tumbling with her own gun that she never got to use.

The body slumped on the broken head. A noticeable spine vertebrae leading the top of what was once the place that she had her head in cracked once again yet ultimately against the weight. The rest of her head was plastered in several pieces wherever it went. Blaine also had to see the neck slump and spill piles of blood; glug, glug, glug. Sometimes he scared himself.

Butch just looked back at the door. When the glugging stopped, Butch looked back for a second at the body to make sure to keep note where it was.

After she died gloriously in a shock of gore, two brilliant and gleaming bright lights soared from her modified corpse.

"Oh, shit," Butch observed, "the unfortunate one's a Pokémon trainer."

The trainer's Pokémon knew. It was as if a collapsing body was a command. But they didn't know that their Marina was dead. It was time for something that few Pokémon knew: vengeance.

Even though blood shivered through the floor and through the crack on the door behind them, the people there were still occupied somehow. Perhaps they were reluctant to meet their counterstrikers.

I would have been reluctant too in this situation, Blaine figured.

Blaine would have reached for his Pokémon, but the Hitmonchan and Golduck looked inconcievably maddened/angry so all he reckoned that he had time for was to reach for a D5k trigger.

Butch had no Pokémon.

Golduck went for Butch; Hitmonchan went for Blaine. Golduck smartly powered up a shield (Barrier) in front of his delicate-looking body before any gunshots came. Hitmonchan, on the other hand, was simply "too fast" to worry about bullets.

Hitmonchan's pauses, true to the Pokédex entry, weren't staying still; they were short pauses to throw a punch. He would run around Blaine at an outstanding speed, then after each and every few seconds throw a gloved fist at Blaine's head. Unfortunately for Hitmonchan, Blaine could endure. And it was already getting old for him, after the first punch.

Blaine wasn't firing gunshots when the blur of Hitmonchan circled around him. Instead, he waited to be hit.

A few seconds here- one to the back of the head. Blaine flinched a little now, but quickly got back up nonetheless; regardless. A few seconds there- one to the left ear caused a sharp flash of Blaine to be felt and seen. A trickle of blood could be felt cooling from Blaine's head, now being battered more and more. But Blaine simply got back up again. A few seconds now-

One on the face.

Cracking sounds; cracking sensation. Cracking pain. Blaine sensed it all, and he fell under the pressure of the blow. But not before squeezing the trigger of his D5k as hard as he could.

The Hitmonchan had stood still for too long. His fist blows were powerful, but cute little dumdummed rounded lead cylinders propelling at that fixed rate did lots more damage. Hitmonchan chattered. Lifted up. Endured. Tore apart. Died.

Pieces of white Pokémon blood and white stuff scattered everywhere, the Hitmonchan had been caught off-guard quickly; he died quickly. He collapsed a morbid white heap on the ground, soft objects slowly spilling from his torso that was no longer.

Golduck faced Butch. Concentrating deeply on something . . . Powerful . . . As his offending Human shot at him with no success. The .22 bullets clicked on the ground after suddenly going still on the barrier. Golduck was half-concentrating, half-mocking.

Butch was now in a position where he must think to live, so he tuned himself up and thought about what to do. His bullets could do nothing unless the psychic barrier was off, even just for one second.

Okay, Butch thought, he can sure defend now. But hey, how can he attack?

Golduck held his two temples with each webbed "hand". A red dot that resided on the top of Golduck's head was now starting to glow. Butch recognised it as a hyper beam.

Butch bent his knees and braced himself to move when the time was right. He knew what to do now. Or call it some sort of hunch.

The beam shot.

Butch ran over to the right, ignoring the extremely powerful ray and concentrating with his running aim on the Phantom. The hyper beam hit the concrete and passed through it as if it were a gelatin dessert. The explosion that resulted was far into the ground, but the roar was still terrifying. Another couple of bangs were heard, which were the gunshots from the Phantom.

Only that couple of bullets hit home, but only that couple were needed. A couple of white blotches appeared on the hide of Golduck's chest. The Pokémon looked down at his wounds (quite startled), looked back at Butch (lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling; exasperated) and collapsed on the floor (dead).

Katsura suddenly realised that his D5k was out of ammo. He stood up to get a weapon from a body somewhere when he noticed three more bodies: Golduck, Hitmonchan and their gored trainer. He looked down at Butch, who was beginning to stand up.

"What are you staring at?" Butch asked.

"Oh, sorry," Blaine sighed, approaching another body.

"Wait, excuse me for that. I nearly got my chest blown apart, so don't mind me."

Blaine picked up an AK-47 and his face didn't stutter. "Let's wait for whatever's behind that door."

***

"Let's wait for whatever's behind that door."

Tracey heard the voice from the area past the now-closed door. Red blood clotted up the door crack. Crack was also a good description of Tracey at that moment, but his helmet was on so nobody could hear him. He had decided to crack, he had decided to get mad, he had decided to see Gary's sitting corpse with a mangled chest and he had decided to get revenge.

Tracey's eyes looked down to see a blood-stained brick. He kicked it away as hard as he could and forced open the door almost off its hinges. Tracey raised up his gun and stormed in.

"Come on!" Tracey yelled into his helmet. Nobody heard, but saying that made him feel satisfied for the moment.

***

"What the fuck is that thing?" Butch asked, raising up his gun.

"An armored League commander," Blaine simply replied, "don't use bullets; they don't work, at least not unless their copkillers."

The armored man turned around to face Blaine. He cocked his head and put his left hand on the gun as well as his right. He was about to fire when-

Clang. A figment of both leather of steel collapsed over the armored man's back torso. The only thing that the commander seen before darkness was a hunk of metal look him in the eye.

Blaine recognised the hunk of metal as a chair. The commander collapsed. Butch and Blaine couldn't actually tell if he was unconcious or dead, but they reckoned that they could leave him there.

"You happy that I saved your life?" Butch asked, looking at Blaine.

"Yes; thankful enough," Blaine replied, rubbing his forehead excessively. He looked down to see a blue hulk lying under the great stainless steel weight.

"But," Blaine continued, "I think that there was one guy left."

"Fuck this; I'm not waiting," Butch confirmed, aiming his gun through the corridor.

The hallway was empty. The elevator could be heard noisily going up to the surface. Oak had left the premises to save his life.

"Okay man," Butch concluded, "looks like it's just you and me."

"Yes." Blaine shook his head for a second, then looked at the computers. Perhaps food could wait; the two computers looked interesting to Blaine.

Unknown place- Same time

Me again; that angsty little fucker looking for some half-possible solution. (Figures.)

Before I left, I heard some "final" plans from a group of "senior" rebels. They contacted me with a psywave comm. frequency to tell me (gosh; they think that I'm actually one of them! How silly, but it's useful in my case) that they had verified and concluded their final ultimate plan. Their Omega Directive. The Omega Directive. I quiver a bit when I hear about how they will end it all:

They will send their only Mew, Other Side, on a kamikazi mission to destroy the set up headquarters. It is basically standing on the top of a bomb and emptying all of the psychic power into it when the time is left at 0 seconds. It will kill him certainly, but it will also kill several friendly neighbourhood generals and civilians. Or several million. See what I mean by brutal?

Those who are about to die: I SALUTE YOU!

I am now not really very big on dying a horrible death by staying with the rebels as they sacrifice themselves to destroy him, so I am now far away from my home beside the headquarters. There is a forest right behind me but now I am waiting for my home and all surrounding it to go in the beautiful blaze of psychic fireworks.

After that I will have to go my own way. The wreckage would be too unstable to use as shelter and it wouldn't be much to go back to anyway. After all, the place will sink to anarchy (surely enough) and not be anything near a respectable government for a long time (so I think) but- hey, woah! Ka-BOOM! Hahaha!

There it goes.

Community base B7 under [Viridian City]- 20:15

Blaine had decided to have a look at the computers. Butch cleared out the gored bodies reluctantly (except for the possibly still-alive body of that commander; he was too heavy) and decided to let Blaine go on while he made a final systems check-up. Butch wanted to leave; the place was too hard to raise alone as shelter especially when it became so messed-up after conflict. He was careful not to trip over shrapnel or "stuff".

They now both sat in the steel chairs on each side of the room facing each computer, watching the screens of their computers. Butch was at the comm. system; Blaine was at the radar panel. After a few minutes, Blaine heard an unusually loud blip. He looked at the signature of the blip's source to see-

"They sure don't tell us about that in school." Blaine broke the silence with his observation.

"About what, my- woah there. Shit." Butch looked back at the radar and found an odd-looking presence. It was an unknown energy signature of some kind. Whatever it was, Butch hadn't seen anything like it, and it was not his duty to lose it. Butch walked up to the radar and leant on Blaine's shoulder.

"So it's at coords . . . BA 68 84 FE," Butch thought out loud to himself in observation. "Right."

Butch ran back over to his own computer as Blaine sat quiet yet confused. Butch was not at all confused; at least not yet.

"This should do it and . . . There. Brock, are you there?"

"Brock from B9 on. Ah! That voice is so distinguishable, Butch. You must have a lot of fun with the ladies," a voice echoed through the comm.

"Yeah right," Butch replied; half a cough, half a sigh.

"Brock, see what's happening on coords. BA 68 84 FE," Butch ordered.

"Plains of Cinnabar Island? Man, we're op-to-mistic today. Is it you, or just another lucky girl who wants a photo from one of the last satellites left on the planet? Butch, you can still-"

"I'm 4 years older than you, Brock, and with that experience I can tell you something."

"What?"

"Shut up and look through that telescope for me please."

"Okay, power-boy. Okay then, let's see here . . ."

A brief pause.

"Holy shit, man! That girl's scored big!"

Blaine felt more agressive now for some reason. Maybe it was something that Brock said.

"Fax it to me," Butch sighed.

"O-ho-ho-kay, then. Realise now that this is my holy grail! Something like this here; everyone thought that this place was abandoned! This is better than sex! Except, of course, for that time in 2011 when-" Butch cut off the transmission with a flick of his wrist.

"Is he always like . . . This?" Blaine asked Butch, tilting his head.

"No. He's the mastermind for a lot of things and now he's a swingin' bastard while he still can be one, because the league would be after him."

A second later, a fax beside the comm. whirred into life. Butch watched with anticipant eagerness as the page showing what needed to be seen was printed out in full-color bit-by-bit. When the whirring stopped and the paper was printed, Butch grabbed the sheet to take a look.

Hmm, Butch thought, let's see what Blaine makes of this.

He handed Blaine the sheet. Blaine stared at it for a moment and then was transfixed.

"What is it? The ruins, the smoke?" Butch asked.

Blaine frowned and gave the picture back to Butch. "Look at the bodies."

The picture was basically one of a just-created wasteland. It was still glowing. There was wreckage everywhere (none of which looked Human), but apparently it was a picture of the center of the blast; there was very little shockwave. But bodies were scattered everywhere, each and every one some kind of Pokémon. They did not seem to have been killed by smoke or fire or being crushed by any structure or any shockwave. It was a blast that had been amplified by strong psychic power.

One body looked distinguishable as being big, white and spooky.

Mewtwo was dead.

"Something's happened," Blaine chidily observed. Butch turned pale.

"May I suggest that we simply get the food and go?" Blaine asked.

"Oh, yeah. Of course."

Cinnabar Island- Same time

I think that there is room for a little more musing here from this Chansey.

I have been surprised and somewhat eerily entertained by the small explosion and the remarkable psychic blast. I know that he is dead now (look at the ruins at the centre and the lack of retaliation, for fuck's sake!) but the thoughts of death always deep down hurt me because of my instinct. (Look at me. I'm a Chansey; shit.) After all, we always, ALWAYS have to fucking care. Some angst as well, I guess. Whatever the feelings are, they piss me off.

I can only sigh for sure. So I sigh as smoke rises from the HQ building. I sigh as hundreds die. Why? Because I knew that there was no way that I could have prevented it (oh, so you think that I'M the hero now? Fucking fool; for fuck's sake . . .)

So I sigh as I leave setting off for the forest.

The forest is dense (reminds me of some of THOSE Poké-fucking-mon that I know of) and I will continue straight on towards the sea until I find someone to help me survive in this big, bad world (two is better than one, as romantics say) because hey, you'd be surprised at how quickly Pokémon make friends. After that, I plan to get as far away off this shitty island as the secondary teleportation lets me.

Whatever. ("Whatever" as in: "Whatever it takes to increase my chances of not being blown apart by some crazed manic Pokémon before getting the hell off this island.")

Community base B7 located in [Viridian City]- 21:00

. . .

Pain. There was no chair as a weight anymore, but still pain. It never stopped. It never wanted to stop.

. . .

Tracey stirred painfully and very slowly. He tried his best to get all of his systems working before even twitching his eyelids. He was still (so he thought) in the center of the control room, lying down in a heap of fallen armor.

Okay, Tracey thought, can't do anything. I know that it's move or die, but . . . AH! But . . . Fuck, where's the instruction manual for operating your own throat if you need it? I feel something coming up.

Tracey spat/puked out an oversized wad of stickied blood. He could no longer see through his helmet now that it was so dirtied by injury- see! Tracey's eyelids had already shot open. They seen red and they, strangely enough, felt red. He hurt. It was a hurt that could only be compared to what happens during careless acupuncture.

Tracey had reached a new level in his nervous system, so it seemed to him; he felt his blood rush, his legs momentarily twitch, he felt blood caught in scratches in his throat dribble down his esophagus. But as more pain came, more things worked. He seemed to be dented in many ways and possibly bent out of shape (chrushed by his own suit), but nothing was apparently broken.

Tracey knew that he could be shot dead if he took his helmet off, but he had to do it; he had to take the risk. His hands complained severely to dignify that they worked. They still worked despite the nerves of pain reacting in furious boiling anger, and Tracey practically tore the helmet off. Noticing that he was suddenly blind, Tracey remembered that he had a visor on for his helmet vision.

Tracey's hands mysteriously kept working; they courageously persisted and ripped the piece of metal off with all of their trouble. The arms throbbed and yet were relieved that the job was done. Tracey looked at his world again and fainted.

Viridian City is the same everywhere now, Tracey confirmed before losing conciousness. It's the same.

. . .

Tracey felt a lot better when he staggered up once again, at least relatively. Perhaps before his systems still needed time to function. Or perhaps it was some sort of nightmare, but Tracey wanted to deny that thought. He wanted to reach his goal, as always. For now, it was survival and the nearest league base, at Pallet town, where he had sent the officers with his Hassamu.

First thing: Tracey wanted to leave. That was his objective: right now or else. His eyes sorely met the blood-streaked walls. The bodies from the corridor and crew quarters had been cleared ­ league and community alike ­ and piled grotesquely. The piling wasn't neat, but what would be?

Bodies. Red and white; white and red; red and white and gray. Their very own texture. If any one boddy caught one's eye, it was because of a hint to an obvious cause of death; Gary Oak lay in the corner with eyelids that will be clenched until rotted and a chest that was once human; Marina lay closer to the corridor with her head gracefully cleared and removed.

Tracey noticed that Dr. Oak wasn't among the dead. He must have left, Kenji thought as he stared down the passageway to the elevator. I must follow him.

Surrendering, Tracey painfully moved, step by step, to the elevator. He left his gun behind and remembered that there were food and water ration packets stored in hidden areas on his suit legs. His chances of survival were no longer nil.

Whatever, they were most likely slim now.

Cinnabar Island- 21:30

Deadly as it was, the forest seemed oddly welcoming to any Pokémon or Human that should find it. The darkness of the night there was still not a good omen for the simple visiting average Pokémon. Despite this, the night lived on with nocturnal types. The others, after a while of living within its depths, adapted.

Deep in the wood, one of these adapted specimens made his well through the black suitably well: a Jigglypuff, holding a felt pen. It was a memory of his from so long ago, of the times of bright suns and loudmouth trainers. The pen was the most treasured of all of his posessions. A name was still etched on it with some sort of pin: "Ash Ketchum- Phone Mother at [bit rusty] in the case of loss."

In a small space between two trees, Jigglypuff notices something just beyond the dark. He turned his head around sharply. He had gone far to accomplish his objective; he didn't want to be killed by whatever came now. It was a light snore. Jigglypuff took out his shiny and powerful heavy weapon (he had noticed a dead Human lying down holding it as a sort of handgun before Jigglypuff took it and carried it along wherever he went) before approaching the appearance.

He was lying down, asleep: a Chansey, with some odd black markings etched on his head. Jigglypuff backed off a bit. Those black markings were those of the hierarchy in the plains, the ones that supported Mewtwo. Through the shadowsof trees; in the speck of moonlight a bright pink texture shown the markings on the head.

The markings were also covered with thin, crumbling white Pokémon blood.

Jigglypuff quietly backed away, but it was now wide awake; sitting up; looking Jigglypuff straight in those huge sparkling eyes of his.

<<<<<<<<

Not Off-Topic: And a Howdy to you. Now tell me: why the fuck did you come here and wake me up?

>>>>>>>>

Jigglypuff's head clenched violently as the psychic message intercepted with his mind. He nearly collapsed under the brain tension. At that moment, Jigglypuff could just imagine getting his cute big head of his blown to many, many, tiny white pieces by one huge needle.

Seeing the effect of the psywave, the Chansey decided to simply talk normally.

"Chan chan cha chan-chan-cha. Ch-chansey, chan ch'cha cha-ch ch-chan chansey-chan. (I see that you're not compatible. Listen, it looks like you're up to something.)"

"(Just walking by!)" Jigglypuff replied, attempting to make an exit before the Chansey did anything.

"(Look little fella, I don't have time for fuck. Rebels have just destroyed my home and killed many thousands and I'm currently making an exit. Can you tell me who you are?)"

"(An . . . Entertainer . . . Looking for Threeside.)"

"(Okay. Now put the Human magnum down before you blow my head off and get yourself crushed by a tree on recoil.)"

Jigglypuff comically realised that he had forgot to put the gun in his large back-holster. That he did with a twitch of elegance, before looking back at the Chansey figure. The Chansey figure looked dissatisfied for some reason, but Jigglypuff just wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.

Jigglypuff turned around and slammed into an invisible wall.

"(No escape until you tell the truth. I'm still a Chansey, and Chansey's know when lies come. That Threeside is a Pokémon town on the outskirts of the forest and I know that you're telling the truth about your destination. That entertainer bit, though . . .)"

Jigglypuff sighed. "(I'm settling a score with someone. That certain someone has been notified falsely of an entertainer coming his way at Threeside. I am that entertainer.)"

Chansey slowly clapped his hands. "(Very, very good. Shit; you're getting the hang of this.)"

"(I'll help you and you do something for me afterward. Deal?)"

"(What?)"

"(You heard me. Deal or no.)"

Jigglypuff didn't want to think of some of the possibilities a Chansey with a secondary psychic power could do to him if he refused.

"(. . . Deal. But do what I say here or I'll try my very best to kill you.)"

"(You don't need to try; I have a small stubby head that is slightly smaller than the bullet of that gun that you're carrying. If you shoot me there, I'll be crapped up real bad.)"

"(Uh, okay . . .)"

Resigning, Jigglypuff let the Chansey come with him.

Route 1- Same Time

Samurai had found B7 with virtually no trouble at all, but he had noticed something on the community flag hanging above it: two bulletholes side-by-side; a community sign that the place was now abandoned. So he had simply proceded to Route 1 regardless as he knew that there was always base B9.

B9. The base under Pallet town, the base under a place dominated by the League. The League base above doesn't know about B9 and it is a scientific research center. The people at B9 regularly emerge and steal something-or-other from the League labs.

Route 1 was barely intact, but intact it still was so Samurai still knew where he was going. The walk would be long and boring for him to stare ahead at nothing, so he simply stared at his D5k machine-gun as he moved along. Its stern gaze was the most entertaining sight to Samurai.

Samurai stared at the gun, but he didn't think about it. Fascination with what guns are wasn't him. Fascination with the old League man was.

Why do they want him? Samurai thought. Whatever it is, they must want to see his head bad. Heh.

He finally decided to look ahead again and to his surprise, he found someone in front of him. It was a man well into his middle-ages. Samurai looked at him and remembered that it was Dr. Oak of the League.

Hmm, Samurai thought, capturing him will get me just what I need with the B9 people: some respect. Respect it is.

Samurai raised his gun and walked up to Dr. Oak's back. He was unarmed and didn't notice Samurai.

"Hello," Samurai stated.

Dr. Oak didn't turn around. A gun prodded him on the back and the barrel seemed to stick there.

"What is it?" Dr. Oak asked, trembling.

"I won't shoot you now League, but if you try to fight back at me seeing you die will be like an orgasm. Keep walking."

Dr. Oak had no choice. He sighed and kept walking, with the barrel of Samurai's automatic following him. Captured.

Cinnabar Island- 0:30

The darkness of the forest would never end in their eyes now.

Tired and weak, Not Off-Topic and Jigglypuff decided that they couldn't go any further so, quite exhausted, they both seemed to collapse at once; asleep the very precise moment when their bodies hit the dirt. Almost out quite cold.

Same Place- 8:30

Not Off-Topic awoke with the startling sensation of being in mid-air and yet not falling or flying. He blinked his eyes a bit first and nothing happened. Then, he looked forward to find out that he was captured. He was being carried by an Usokki (holding his hands) and a Hassamu (holding his feet with- ouch) on either side. They growled when Not Off-Topic fidgeted.

Okay Not Off-Topic thought, a Chansey versus an Usokki and a Hassamu? At this range? At this situation? Fucking Hell; at this day of the week? Better be "cool" with it, then.

***

Jigglypuff woke up with a start.

He felt pain. White blood dribbled half-warm from his mouth. Looking down at himself he found that he was indeed strapped to a chair and battered. Jigglypuff's eyes looked back up to see what he could barely make out ­ his vision was going dim ­ but he knew that it was the Wigglytuff that he was after. He was captured for sleeping at the wrong place and at the wrong time.

A new emotion went through Jigglypuff's mind, one that he had to suppress: rage.

"(I guess that you're wondering where the good ol' pen is, 'eh?)" Wigglytuff taunted, letting the dazed Jigglypuff realise just what was wrong; just what was "missing".

"(Fuck . . . You . . .)"

Wigglytuff laughed for a few seconds. When he was certain that Jigglypuff was under his laughing spell, Jigglypuff winced as a sharp kick went to his gut.

"(Look who's talking mate,)" Wigglytuff added, "(Look who's talking, mate. I heard about "entertainment"; I knew all along that it was you deep down. So you were going to entertain us, then?)"

Jigglypuff said nothing.

"(This is entertainment, but was it what you planned?)" Wigglytuff continued.

Jigglypuff didn't move.

"(What did you plan?)" Wigglytuff sorely asked.

Jigglypuff's eyes met Wigglytuff's. He didn't otherwise move or speak.

"(I think that I can answer my own question. You see Jigglypuff, you can't just blow my head open with a pistol that we can take and ­ as a matter of fact ­ already have taken.)"

Jigglypuff slipped back to unconciousness.

***

The Chansey Not Off-Topic had been brought up to a large room that was his new prison. Apparently it seemed that the Pokémon at Threeside weren't expecting him and overall weren't exactly good hosts. (Well, so to speak . . .)

The room was really a huge version of a Human tent, towering up to two metres above Chansey's pink head. Only two other Pokémon stood in the room: the Usokki and the Hassamu that carried him over.

Not Off-Topic suddenly realised that the place wasn't geared towards blocking psychic power and that the guards around him didn't learn any secondary power. (Nor did it look like they could ever be any good at it.)

So easy, Not Off-Topic thought, non-government Pokémon holds are easy.

First Not Off-Topic decided test his power to see if his plan would work.

Okay, Not Off-Topic thought, before doing this I'll need some water-

A glass of water flew into his hand. Chansey grinned when he realised that that never happened to him before. In order for that to happen he must have had a temporary boost in his ability.

Chansey wanted to find Jigglypuff and find out if he brought Chansey to this unintentionally. A quick glance through Jigglypuff's conciousness would do the trick. He found Jigglypuff's mind and area quickly enough and within seconds he found himself looking at the world through Jigglypuff's eyes.

. . . Which were blurry and somewhat damaged (dented? Kicked?). Jigglypuff was now "clinging to dry" on a single pole. He was not hanging dead, but rather simply tied onto the top of the pole with several tight ropes tied around his waist.

The wind caught his face, tickling him; mocking him as he was stuck there helpless to his currently dire fate . . .

Okay, Not Off-Topic thought, that's enough good proof to me. Looks like Jigglypuff's in trouble too. Hell, guess that he deserves to live. Just idly saving a life then, 'eh?

Not Off-Topic summoned all of his secondary power to teleport both him and Jigglypuff as far off from Cinnabar Island as possible. Within a second and a great consuming white flash, they were both gone to face their new destination.

OOC section:

Did you know that: There are different versions of The Omega Directive at different places. At fanfiction.net it's constantly the latest version, so all the latest parts and rewrites go there. In the other places, there are some things that you'll never find in other places. The TPTL has the Psywave scenes for example, and in the PFFMLA Blaine is viewed as a homosexual who in part five had a sudden crush on Butch due to a mild O.D on testocerone anti-aging! I still consider using that today, but it will NOT turn into romance so it may dissapoint people who like sap (who may, after the first few pages, be dying to read something else anyway!). This is because I listen to what the fans say but only update on fanfiction.net (unless it's a total emergency).

At fanfiction.net, here's what The Omega Directive is like:

Prologue (10K) rewritten eight times

First part (10K) rewritten seven times

Second part (25K)rewritten five times

Third part (30K) rewritten six times

Fourth part (60K) rewritten three times

Fifth part (50K) rewritten twice

Note how the number of rewrites all slip down. I think that the prologue is well polished, so I'll just keep working on the other parts gradually over rewrites until each one reaches eight.

The Omega Directive part six won't be here for a few months. I have to completely rework Engagement and write out Drone first.

Oh and cianchartier@eircom.net is my e-mail, feel free to C&C.