Chapter 6: Shades of Truth

Link to last chapter


On previous chapters: Colonel Graham Ford, of the Heimlan Army’s East Division, returned alone from an unsanctioned mission, with his entire Squad gone MIA and him having no recollection of past events. Now the prime suspect behind the team’s disappearance, he’s on the run from his own Army, trying to clear his name by tracking down his former teammates and bringing them back safely. Graham’s only ally left with HQ is his protégé Private Nathan Hawke, who is trying to buy him time from the inside while Graham wanders the region. Nathan’s former team, the Blitz Unit, was slaughtered by two members gone rogue and, much like Graham, Nathan was the sole survivor, thanks to the noble sacrifice of one of his teammates.

Chapter 6: Shades of Truth​

Graham Ford, Colonel of the East Division of the Heimlan Army, finally stood face-to-face with the one responsible for his Squad’s fate. After months of searching, fighting and wandering the merciless roads of the North, he’d found his target.

At the peak of the roaring Harald Falls, in front of the colossal Altheim Gate, after the most intense struggle of his life, a victorious Graham approached the man, who’d dropped to one knee and breathed heavily. All around them, lying on the arid, desolate route that had been covered in lush grass before they’d clashed, were a dozen fainted Pokémon, Ruger and Tanegashima among them. Only the Trainers remained conscious, the two soldiers on opposite sides of the same war - and with Arceus as their witness, this would be where everything was settled.

“It’s over. Turn yourself in!” The Colonel spoke in his characteristic raspy voice, but much weaker than usual, exhaustion and raw emotion overwhelming him at that point.

“N… No can do, Ford” panted the man as he struggled to regain his footing. “Always with your hostages and prisoners, questionings and judgments… I’m sorry, I prefer to be more definitive.”

Graham froze in place, not only because his supposedly-beaten enemy flashed an unexpected, vile grin, but because his body stopped responding altogether. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t take another step… he couldn’t as much as blink. Why was this happening to him? Why now?!

The sound of the massive waterfall crashing dozens of feet beneath them muffled his foe’s laughter. All Graham could do was watch while the crimson-haired, green-eyed devil limped towards him, the evident pain coursing through the man’s body not nearly enough to wipe away that hideous smirk... and behind him, suddenly, a white humanoid creature materialized out of thin air, floating slightly above the ground, its feet never touching the barren floor. Graham’s eyes widened in pure disbelief as he identified the Pokémon, and subsequently everything up until that point became clear; but once his gaze finally shifted back to the man, he was already inches away from the Colonel’s face…

“It was a pleasure playing this little war game with you, Colonel.”

A small blade flashed in the midday sun, the speckle of light glimmering in his foe’s right hand catching Graham’s attention. All he could do was watch powerlessly as the dagger’s tip pressed against his black uniform, then buried itself slowly and methodically into his chest, just to the left of his sternum. The weapon pierced its way into his flesh, perfectly lodged between his third and fourth ribs, and kept digging deeper... By then, the brave soldier had already passed out from the pain, blissfully unaware of the deliberately prolonged torture.

On that day, Graham Ford died. His heart was stabbed and his body tossed down Harald Falls. But no history book would ever record this event – not in Heiml, not in Saigo, not even in the Book of Jeth, the Prophet. Because time is a fickle thing, all the more so in the hands of a man.

~~~~~​

“Thank you anyway, miss.”

Graham had arrived at Edda City the evening before. Too tired and irritated to do any searching then, he’d stayed the night at the cheapest hotel he could find, intending to start searching the following day. As it turned out, sometimes it was better to pay a little more when it came to lodgings… The place was a dump, pure and simply, “The Resting Slaking” an ironically fitting name for the hotel, since only an actual Slaking could find a way to sleep in a hellhole like that. As a result of being stingy, Graham couldn’t get more than two hours of proper sleep – between the wooden plank someone decided to call a bed, the insects nibbling him the whole night and the unspeakably noisy nightlife bars of ill-repute which populated the street below, “rest” was the farthest thing from the Colonel’s mind that night.

And now I gotta deal with this kind of crowd.

As he came to find out rather quickly, the people that walked the busy streets of Edda during daytime were vastly different from the lecherous drunkards prowling the area at night. Being the hottest place of commerce in all of Heiml with its massive GyaraDome Department Store, Edda City attracted all manner of rich tourists, entrepreneurs, businessmen and all other kinds of pompous pricks Graham couldn’t stand. And now that he was forced to depend on them for information, his mood was at an all-time low.

Admittedly, in any other circumstance, walking around Edda could be a very pleasant experience. The once-humble settlement had grown and adapted to the influx of people over the last decades, and the mayors had put public money to good use by turning Edda into one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Nowadays, it incorporated several architectural styles in its residential areas, commerce zones and numerous parks, borrowing most heavily from Kalosian designs – especially evident in public gardens, street cafés and even the lamp posts scattered along the spacious streets. Interestingly, and quite ironically, the GyaraDome itself was of Saigonese inspiration.

Graham had hoped his Squad had been less inconspicuous the last time they stopped in Edda to restock on supplies. It was the team’s preferred destination for doing so after or in-between assignments, and he reasoned that was what they’d done shortly before everything had gone awry, but he still couldn’t remember a damn thing. And if Squad Six had in fact passed through the city recently, nobody had any recollection of them.

We didn’t even get drunk and raise a ruckus. If we were here, nobody noticed… just my goddamn luck.

He had just exited his fifth café in the historical district. That he could remember, the old lady in a blue dress and Furret scarf was the nineteeth person he’d asked for help. Now that he thought about it, though, maybe he was doing it wrong.

Supplies. That was the only reason we ever stopped here. I should be asking around in the GyaraDome.

Edda was located in Southeastern Heiml, and while the entire country was invariably cold – as expected of the northernmost region of the Pokémon World -, the commercial metropolis was in fact warmer than most other cities of the warring nation. The capital Yggdra, for instance, just shy of two hundred miles to the northwest of Edda, was covered in snow every six months. In fact, the harsh weather was the sole reason why the residential area bombarded by Saigo at the start of the war was still being rebuilt today.

Graham took pride in being a Heimlan, and was extremely fond of his people’s mentality – proud, independent, traditionalist and practical. But in this particular instance, he found himself wishing Heimlans were a bit more like the Kalosian… It was not customary for the “hardy folk” to exchange presents, not even on birthdays; likewise, no holiday was ever associated with the giving of gifts, as it simply wasn’t part of Heimlan nature - as clearly expressed by the national saying “Keep only your conquests”. As a result, the vast majority of people roaming the streets as he approached the GyaraDome were foreigners looking for local products and souvenirs, all in all useless people in his quest for information.

It was a short, ten-minute walk from the historical district to the Department Store. As he went, Graham found himself realizing just how much time he had been spending inside the HQ over the years – enough to at least make him miss this kind of strolls. But, as always, he was on a mission and time was scarce, and so he hastened his pace. Upon reaching the GyaraDome’s entrance, the allergic-to-crowds Colonel had to take a deep breath before walking in.

The Dome, nowadays the biggest Department Store in Heiml, was not initially designed as such. In fact, had it been built for the purpose of emulating the similar-purpose buildings of Celadon or Goldenrod, it likely would’ve been erected as a tower. As it were, the GyaraDome was first conceived as a Stadium of gigantic proportions to host all manner of competitions – from human sports to Pokémon battles – in an age when relations between Heiml and Saigo thrived. The then-Jarl of Heiml – the highest political figure in the nation -, Ludwig Ragnarsson, originally intended to honour Saigo by building a grand arena which replicated the Eastern region’s traditional architecture, and had planned for yearly tournaments to be held at the GyaraDome that would rival the Heiml League challenges in spectacle. However, the mutually beneficial relationship between Heiml and Saigo became strained during the construction of the Dome: Jarl Ludwig died unexpectedly in his sleep one day, and Leif Eriksson, the appointed successor (publicly voted by the Council of Lorndaal), had a strikingly different view on international relations – he reinforced Heiml’s monopoly on the gathering and export of pine wood, iron and fish, which coincided with a financial crisis in Saigo due to a plague which ravaged rice crops, the main source of income for the region. As a result, Saigo could no longer afford the raw materials it had always imported from the North, and Jarl Leif wasted little time in striking a very profitable deal with with the Saigonese Government, involving the selling of lumber, ore and Seaking meat at slightly reduced prices in exchange for exclusive rights of purchase of Saigo evolutionary stones (a rarity in Heiml) and Life Orbs, a kind of mineral initially discovered in the Eastern region. All in all, Saigo became a financial “hostage” of Heiml, rather than an equal, and the North grew considerably richer under Jarl Leif’s rule. Seeing no benefit to ceremonial battles where commerce could be practiced instead, Leif overturned Jarl Ludwig’s decision to make the GyaraDome a sports arena, and that was how it wound up becoming a colossal trading hub first, and the current Department Store later on, despite its unusual shape for this purpose – an immensely wide, circular building shaped like a coiling Gyarados, only three stories-high but spanning a huge area, which allowed for a multitude of shops to be set up on each of the three floors.

The hell’s going on in here?!

Even by Edda standards, the GyaraDome was unusually crowded, with thousands of people so densely packed that one could not take more than two steps without bumping into someone. Men, women and children of many different complexions populated the entry hall, pushing the people ahead of them to hurry forward, shouting and cheering much louder than Graham could stomach.

“Hurry up already!!”

“Yeah, move it!!”

“We’ll miss Wild Card’s autograph at this rate!”

The last sentence caught Graham’s attention amidst all other noises. Wild Card?... It took him a while to piece everything together, but once he did, it all made sense. He had just picked the absolute worst day to walk into the GyaraDome.

I do know who that is. “Wild Card” Axel King… “Current reigning and defending” Unova League Champion, as those guys like to call him. Demolition squad Gavin King’s elder brother… How did I not know he was coming here?

In hindsight, it was easy to see how he could’ve missed it. Graham had been on the run for over a month, actively avoiding any and all nearby settlements in the first weeks after his escape so as not to alert suspicions. Edda was the first proper City he’d set foot in since leaving the HQ, which would explain why he’d heard nothing of this event.

Axel King was the first proper Unovan Champion to arrive in quite a while – Alder had been less than spectacular in the eye of the general public, and Gym Leader Iris’s subsequent promotion had been regarded as little more than an a temporary solution. Axel had arrived two years ago in a blaze of glory, crushing the Elite Four and dethroning Iris with ease thanks to his wildly unpredictable battling style. It was precisely that unorthodox approach and always-changing team choices that earned Axel the “Wild Card” moniker, and as everyone knew, Unovans enjoyed a good spectacle much more than actual results. Axel King gave them the best of both worlds: greatly entertaining matches and displays of absolute dominance. As a result, “Wild Card” quickly achieved an idol-like status in his home region, which in turn spread to worldwide fame. Apparently, Axel was now in Heiml – visiting his brother Gavin, perhaps? - and had decided to stop by the GyaraDome for a meet-and-greet with fans.

Something our own Champion would never, ever do.

Gottfried Haraldson, “The Norse God”, had been Heiml’s Champion for over thirty years; many younger soldiers of the East Division had never seen another Champion in their entire lives. The man, by all accounts a living legend, had several distinguishing traits, none of which pertaining to social skills. Even now, well in his seventies, Gottfried was a massive human being, standing at nearly seven feet tall; his beard, pristine white and uniquely daimonji-shaped, was as iconic as the man himself; furthermore, he was said to be one of the few men on the planet with authority over a Legendary Pokémon. But unlike the Champion of Unova, Heiml’s own was reclusive, silent and despised spectacle. To him, battles were sacred and pertained to nobody else besides the two combatants involved.

I can’t remember the last time Gottfried even left Caer Valheim, the Champion’s Fortress. It would be unthinkable for a man like him to appear publicly like Axel is doing, with all this pomp and circumstance.

Gottfried and his Elite Four – Sigurd the Wave, Bernhardt the Blaze, Brunhilde the Fist and Ragnar the Fang – were often criticized for their nigh-invisibility during the ongoing war, choosing to remain inside Caer Valheim to welcome challengers rather than join the ranks – some foolishly defended - or publicly address the people to encourage the masses, like the national symbols they all were. But the Champion was adamant about his seclusion, wishing to remain as far away from the conflict as possible; despite never issuing an official statement on the matter, it was clear to Graham that Gottfried was the farthest thing from a patriot, feeling no nationalistic pride whatsoever and putting the entirety of his passion into battling. After all, he’d been waiting thirty years for someone to best him, to no avail.

The man’s a Heimlan, sure, but he is a Champion first and foremost. It’s become everything he is, and everything he cares about. Caer Valheim could be blown to bits by an air raid and the stubborn old titan would remain still in his Ice Throne, awaiting the next contender.

Realizing he would never make it past the raucous crowd if he tried to pierce his way through, Graham prepared to turn around and leave, re-entering the GyaraDome through a different, more distant entrance. As he did, however, the cheering, whistling and shouting only grew louder, and progressively so until it became unbearable. When the people right next to him started clapping and yelling for no discernible reason, the Colonel peered over his shoulder to find a man right behind him, smiling directly at him. About the same height as Graham but some fifteen years younger, with short and spiky light brown hair, golden-hazel eyes and a crystal earring in his right earlobe, clean-shaven and sharply dressed in a white suit and light-blue tie, the Unova Champion in the flesh held out his hand.

“I was wondering if we could have a quick word,” asked Axel King in a soft, polite tone of voice. “Away from all of this, preferably.”

As Wild Card spoke, his private security – three large men dressed in black right behind the Champion – forced the nearby crowd to disperse, allowing Axel and Graham to break away from the confusion and move towards the entrance the Colonel had just walked in from.

We’ve never met before. How the hell does he know me? He’ll break my cover with this little stunt!

“That’s better,” sighed Axel, somewhat overdramatically. “I brought this upon myself, I admit, but I never expected there’d be this many people in here!”

“Get to the point,” growled a visibly annoyed Graham.

“Wow, now I’m sure you’re the guy. I was told of your… legendary temper,” Axel joked. Now that they met in person, it was easy for Graham to see how the man could draw thousands of fans to him with a simple smile. “You know who I am, I’m guessing, and I know you’d prefer it if I didn’t know who you are, so alright, let’s get to the point. I was asked to give you this note.”

“A Champion who takes orders from someone else, eh?”

“I take advice,” Axel retorted dryly. Despite being a showman, there was an underlying intelligence to the man that Graham hadn’t realized up until now. “And so should you, if you want answers. Catch you later, bud.”

Graham frowned instantly at being addressed in such a way. “Bud” wasn’t something anyone called him, ever. Especially not younger folk, who should know better than to disrespect their elders… but Axel was Unovan, and that explained a hell of a lot as far as manners were concerned.

The Champion walked away, back towards the eager crowd, while Graham remained by the door twirling the piece of paper in his fingers. Deciding he’d had enough of noise and confusion, all the more so now that people were staring at him, the Colonel walked back outside, opting to postpone his inquiries around the GyaraDome for a later date, once things had settled down.

“Let’s see what this is about…” he muttered, after he’d found a somewhat quieter place to read – a nearby bench on the plaza, the only one not occupied by either young, hormonal couples or old, frail ones. Unfolding the palm-sized piece of paper, he read the note in silence, a mercifully short and to the point message, just the way he liked it.

“Jotun Square. 2 am. Storm in, bolt out.”

The last sentence in particular caught his attention, a familiar phrase privy only to a very special group of people he’d once been involved with. Axel King couldn’t possibly know the saying, but whoever had given Wild Card the note might. All in all, Graham couldn’t miss out on this appointment…

Meanwhile, I have time to kill. Should vanish somewhere away from the Department Store; thanks to Axel’s public spectacle, I’ve had more eyes on me than I can afford to risk.

He retraced his steps back to one of the bars he’d already been to in the morning, when he was asking around for leads. The Grinning Walrein was his and Wolfe’s favourite pub in the city, which meant Squad Six often gathered there after missions, on the way back to HQ.

Being here alone just isn’t the same…

The bar in of itself had nothing remarkable as far as looks went: nine tables for customers on the ground floor and some more seats at the counter, and four bare-bones rooms for overnight stays in the upper level; wooden walls and ceiling with scant decoration - nothing more than a pair of large Walrein tusks on the wall behind the counter – and a single dangling glass chandelier providing modest lighting to the common area. But the selection of drinks was staggering, the place was always impeccably clean and the old couple that had been running the joint for over forty years was exceedingly welcoming to any and all customers – uncharacteristic of the Heimlan elderly, who were typically moody and reserved, especially around foreigners. Graham had first learned of the place when he was a Private, his then-superior officer Lieutenant Riddick Foggart – now deceased – having paid his entire squad a round at The Grinning Walrein after their squad’s first basic mission. Since then, Graham had come to associate the tavern with feelings of success and camaraderie, even if he now stood there all alone drinking his usual cup of eldwort tea. He’d been abstinent for several years now, and always ordered the same beverage, even when the rest of Squad Six got drunk as all hell… because all that mattered to him was the company, harsh and cold as he always appeared to be.

He stared at the counter, absent-mindedly, reliving some of the team’s previous meetings at The Grinning Walrein. He distinctly remembered one of the most recent times they’d all stayed there, that one episode when Jackson Brody had gotten got so drunk he’d puked all over Frank Vicker. Graham smiled as he recalled the bald, usually-distant Espionage expert glaring at the Demolition giant over his small round glasses, then rigidly walking towards the restroom where he remained for almost one hour.

Vicker had an unhealthy obsession with cleanliness. He refused to leave that damn toilet until his uniform had been properly washed and dried. Heh, Van Dillan was all over the poor guy for the rest of the night, mocking him to hell and back…

Dillan had that “gift”; he always knew how to get under someone’s skin. It didn’t help that the red-haired spy seemed to know the darkest, most personal secrets of everyone around him, the rest of Squad Six included. That was why he was the absolute best at what he did, superior even to Vicker despite his relative youth, even if it didn’t buy him a lot of friends.

And he was arrogant to boot. But I’ll be damned if I ever met a smarter guy.

Brody was flustered all night; for a man as massive and as powerful as “Big Time”, he was actually a real damn softy, and it didn’t take much more than an angry look from an older officer to leave him worried. It took a surprisingly sober Garrett Wolfe to reconcile Brody and Vicker at first, but as with all quarrels among men, all that was required afterwards was a couple more drinks and it was as if nothing had happened.

Good times… We really did have something special there. Squad-Freakin’-Six.

They really were a team in every sense of the word. Even the Assault guys, who usually carried themselves as some sort of elite back at HQ, had learned to be humble and mingle in with the rest of the Squad in a relatively short amount of time. And guys like Lion Bergman and Mitch Manning were surprisingly good company once their pedestal was taken from under them – they drank, joked and lost at poker as well as any other man. At the thought of playing cards, Graham found himself reaching for his back pocket and retrieving his faithful old Carrington’s deck, one of the few belongings he’d taken with him on the day he fled the Army. As always, Solitaire proved a very reliable way to kill time, and that was how the Colonel ended up burning away the hours inside The Grinning Walrein until nightfall, long after he’d finished his eldwort tea.

Well… time to go.

Before he knew it, it was ten pm. Still some time left until the meeting, but he needed to stretch his legs and occupy his mind with something other than card sequences. He thanked the aging managers, left a tip and walked outside into the chilly night air of Edda.

While all of the smaller shops along the city’s main streets were closing up for the day, the GyaraDome wouldn’t until two hours from then, and it showed. Plenty of people still roamed about, carrying shopping bags or on their way to the movies. Graham found himself pitying the residents, who had to put up with this kind of commotion at least until after midnight, every single day. And it still didn’t make property any cheaper.

He stopped outside of an electronics shop with several TV monitors on display. Although the store clerks were wrapping things up and preparing to leave, they still hadn’t turned off the lights and the news channel was on. How long had it been since he’d caught up with the world’s happenings?

Goddammit Ford, the war could have been over yesterday and you still wouldn’t have heard about it.

On the screen, a blonde man in his twenties, with green eyes and a serious expression, tried his best to evade journalists, who in turn incessantly crammed microphones in front of his face. The scenario was easily identifiable, if surprising to see on TV: the fields in front of Caer Valheim.

“Levin, over here! A quick word with Channel 2?”

“Mr. Sanders, one moment please!”

“Could you tell us what it’s like to stand in front of the Heimlan Champion’s Fortress?”

Graham found himself reminiscing yet again – something he’d been doing a heck of a lot lately -, thinking back to the day of Yggdra City’s bombing – the first day of the war. Minutes before the catastrophe, the news anchor was giving out details about prodigy Ivan Sanders’s League Challenge… that run had ended in disaster for the “Original Steel Trainer”, he later came to know, since Ivan had passed away in a cave-in, never making it out of the Victory Road.

This time around, several years later, it was the younger brother Levin Sanders, of Heimlan ascendance on his mother’s side but born in Kanto’s Saffron City, who was about to challenge the Elite Four. The youngster’s expression pleased Graham, even if he knew nothing of the Trainer – he thoroughly ignored the press who’d gathered outside the gates of Caer Valheim, bearing a look of fierce determination and considerable serenity for someone who was about to fight against the absolute strongest men and women in the land.

Best of lucks to you kid. Nobody faces Gottfried and walks out the same.

Once the shop finally closed, the Colonel went on his way, still with some time to spare. There was a beautiful, spacious park nearby he enjoyed visiting on occasion, named Harald Garden in memory of the greatest Champion in the history of Heiml – Gottfried’s father, whose name had also been given to the colossal waterfall that led to the Altheim Gate, entrance of the region’s Victory Road. The current Champion and Harald’s son, however, was doing a remarkable job of living up to his legacy, and some said Gottfried might even be stronger than his father had been in his prime. On that topic, Graham had no opinion, but something told him Harald – who’d mysteriously vanished into thin air during his lengthy reign as Champion, some fifty years prior, when the Colonel wasn’t even born – had earned every bit of the legend that was created around his name. Whether the current Champion was the stronger of the two, such a thing was impossible to know for sure… but there were never going to be songs written about how Gottfried’s Pokémon brought a sick child back to life, like there were for Harald’s. That much was certain.

There ain’t ever a way of knowing where the truth ends and the myth begins, but there was something damn special about Champion Harald, I believe that much.

The park was a short walk away, and mercifully far enough from the GyaraDome’s plaza that the number of people began to dwindle as he went along. Harald Garden was open during nighttime as well, devoid of walls or security; after all, vandalism was an extremely rare occurrence in Heiml, and the few that incurred in such a crime were so severely punished – often by passersby, well before the police arrived -, nobody even dared. The park was a sprawling area of perfectly-kempt grass outlined by topiaries trimmed to perfection, depicting several Pokémon native to the northern region. Massive, timeless trees rose in all their splendour, species mostly unaffected by the harsh climate of the land and whose leaves endured all but the strongest blizzards. Flowers were all around scarce, none hardy enough to survive cold months on end, but in Graham’s opinion, they weren’t necessary anyway; colourful embellishments did not go well with Heimlan simplicity. Linear paths of dirt, scattered like a maze around the garden, were the primary roads leading across the fields of green, but walking on the grass itself was not prohibited as long as the terrain wasn’t left too badly damaged.

Once Graham found a secluded spot, under a large pine tree, he tossed two Poké Balls to the ground, releasing his oldest companions. In simultaneous flashes of silver light, Tanegashima the Froakie and Ruger the Monferno materialized.

“We got time to kill,” Graham grunted. “Make the most of it, but keep things tidy.”

Ruger grinned, boisterous as always, while the humourless Tanegashima nodded in silence, aptly concealing his excitement for getting a shot at his rival – however brief the moment was, and with so many restrictions regarding the permitted power output. If both had been allowed to go all out, they’d probably leave a nasty scar on the otherwise impeccable Harald Garden, but this was nothing more than a quick sparring session.

The Colonel leaned back against the pine’s huge trunk, prepared to watch the bout in silence. As was his habit, Graham wouldn’t say anything until the match was over, only correcting his soldiers’ mistakes at the very end – and only in case he felt they hadn’t learned from them mid-battle.

It’s not about who wins, not yet. Tanegashima’s still a long way from Ruger’s skill; but Ruger is immature, and stands to learn just as much from Tanegashima when they fight against one another. In due time, they’ll battle as equals… that’s when things will get fun.


Two hours later, the streets were effectively sempty. The Department Store had finally closed, and Edda didn’t offer much in the way of nightlife activity except in the shady alleys he’d vowed never to sleep at again. The meeting point, Jotun Square, was one of the smaller plazas in the city despite its name, still a ways away from Harald Garden and the GyaraDome. There was nothing remarkable about the place, tucked away in the middle of a residential area and with little more than a fountain and some benches – all in all, an inconspicuous location that served its given purpose for the night.

However picked Jotun Square for the rendez-vous knew what they were doing.

The possibility that it was all a trap set up by the Army to capture him had crossed his mind several times – but so did the clear notion that there was nobody left in the East Division good enough to forcefully take him back to camp.

Unless Roderick Tannhauser himself came to get me, odds are I’ll be able to fight my way to freedom if I have to.

The thought of resisting his fellow officers, possibly injuring any of them, was unquestionably disturbing. He’d followed the Army rules his entire life, only ever bending them – but never breaking them – in cases of utmost necessity. And still, despite his spotless career, he now found himself a fugitive and the prime suspect in the disappearance of an entire squad. If his personality hadn’t earned him many friends to begin with… his current actions were bound to lose him what few he had left.

Doesn’t matter. I’ll find out the truth and clear my name; it’s all I gotta do.

When he finally arrived at the designated meeting point, it was ten minutes past 2 am. A familiar figure was already there, leaning casually against the fountain, and waved as he saw Graham.

“Glad you could make, bud,” said Axel King. “Wasn’t sure you’d show, but then again, that’s why I ain’t the one calling the shots.”

It was still hard for Graham to come to terms with the idea that someone was telling a regional Champion what to do. But the more he spoke to Wild Card, the more obvious it became that there was indeed another piece to this little puzzle…

“You came alone, «reigning champ»?”

“He didn’t,” answered a voice behind him that he couldn’t identify. An almost unnaturally raspy and dry voice, like two pieces of sandpaper grating against one another. “But we’re not with the Army, if that’s your concern.”

Graham turned to face the bone-chilling whisper, and laid eyes on someone he’d never seen before. Or so he was forced to assume, based on the man’s appearance.

He emerged from the shadows, stepping out into the faint light of the single lamp-post that illuminated Jotun Square and stopping next to Axel King, whose lack of reaction told Graham the two had met before; it was the only way not to be unsettled by this new figure. The man was remarkably tall, and might have been muscular at some point, but not anymore; he was entirely bald, with bandages covering the right half of his face entirely, while the lifeless light-blue eye and prominent cheek bone on the left side of his visage granted him a decidedly ghostly appearance. An unadorned, old and torn dark blue cloak covered the man entirely from the neck down, and the way he walked – slowly, deliberately and limping ever-so-slightly from his right leg – gave away the impression that he was considerably older than he actually was: upon closer inspection, looking past all those off-putting features, the man was almost definitely younger than Graham himself, though not by much.

“Who… who the hell are you?” inquired Graham, visibly concerned. He’d never been fond of surprises – not in life, and certainly not in war. Anyone he wasn’t familiar with could be an enemy, until proven otherwise. Especially someone looking like that.

“You can call me what I resemble,” promptly answered the man in his shattered voice.

“Colonel Ford,” interjected Axel, “this is Ghost. He’s the one who asked you to come.”

~~~~~​

“It’s an honour having you here.” Roderick Tannhauser stood behind his mahogany desk, gloved hands behind his back and donning his black uniform with golden embroidery around the shoulders. Several medals lined his jacket, the General’s Articuno above all the others, glistening in the morning sunlight that permeated the office’s large window.

His interlocutor, taller than Roderick by a fair amount, had to bend over slightly as he’d passed the door and now remained on the opposite side of the desk, standing motionless. His beard, a semblance of a white-hot Fire Blast, left no doubts as to the man’s identity, if any remained. Champion Gottfried Haraldson wore his usual robe, a heavy crimson tunic with silver thread decorations depicting the Haraldson family crest – a Legendary Dog on a Viking shield.

“Likewise, General.” Gottfried’s voice resounded like a warship’s rowing drum, heavy with authority and sternness. By comparison, Tannhauser’s characteristically calm, whispered tone might have diminished his presence, but the General’s accomplishments spoke for themselves and placed the blue-haired man in a similar position of power. All in all, this was a meeting held between equals, and both sides knew it.

The Heimlan General walked over to the window, and motioned for the League Champion to join him. Gottfried obliged, and both men gazed at the city below in silence. Construction workers (and some dedicated civilians) worked tirelessly at rebuilding the residential area ravaged by the bombings that had marked the start of the war, years before.

“The current state of affairs is not unknown to you, I’m sure,” finally said Tannhauser. “This is a war we aren’t on the verge of winning.”

“News reach Caer Valheim. I’m not oblivious to ongoing events.” Gottfried always spoke practically in the same tone of voice, but certain slight inflexions still conveyed his feelings quite effectively. This was a topic that annoyed him.

“Then you know why I asked you to come,” retorted the General. Calm and collected as he might be, Roderick Tannhauser never left anything unsaid. “I would like to ask for the League’s assistance one more time. Your combined strength could be a deciding factor in this struggle.”

“Nothing has changed since we last spoke. Caer Valheim will not take part in this petty struggle.”

“With all due respect,” pressed Tannhauser, “this petty struggle could wipe Heiml off the map and Caer Valheim along with it. I understand you do not care for politics, nor is it your duty to do so. But the stakes of this conflict are too high to ignore, and I firmly believe that anyone with the power to protect our people should not hesitate to employ it.”

Gottfried briskly turned around and walked back towards the office door.

“There’s no such thing as “our” people. Caer Valheim, its Elite and Champion will stand, no matter who rules this land. Do not confuse your obligations with mine.” With that, Gottfried prepared to leave.

“I hear there’s a new challenger at your doorstep,” fired Tannhauser just before the door shut. “Perhaps he’ll prove more agreeable.”

Without replying, the undefeated “Norse God” walked away, ready to return to his fortress and welcome the next contender.

~~~~~​

“Ghost?” inquired Graham, unimpressed by the moniker. Codenames were commonplace in the Army, and this one wasn’t particularly imaginative. “Can’t say I know of any officer going by that name.”

“Why do you assume it was Army-given to begin with, Colonel?” replied Ghost, with a tranquillity to his tone that annoyed Graham. “I went by another name when I served Heiml. But yes, I was one of you at some point.”

“Figured as much. Storm in, bolt out? Not something you hear every day,” probed the Colonel. There was something about this Ghost fellow that intrigued him, far beyond the man’s broken appearance. “All the more reason why it’s so strange I never heard of you.”

“A Blitz Unit motto, yes. Thought that might get your attention… and it did.” Ghost walked over to Graham, staring at him all the while with his unsettling ice-blue left eye. “Are you content with being a pawn in this war?”

“Who’re you calling a damn pawn?!” Graham barked. First it was Axel calling him “bud”, and now this shell of a man was insulting him too?

“Well, you’re certainly no King,” joked Wild Card from a distance, still leaning against the fountain. Graham certainly wasn’t laughing, and neither did Ghost, who slowly opened his vest to retrieve something inside with a trembling hand motion. Immediately, the Colonel took a step back and instinctively bent his legs slightly, ready to move out of the way and counter if some sort of weapon was produced from the confines of Ghost’s cloak.

“Just earlier, when I revealed myself to you, you never heard me coming,” whispered the man. “I’ve had plenty of opportunity to harm you already if I’d wanted to.”

Upon extending his right hand, which Graham noticed was also covered in bandages, Ghost revealed what he had reached for: a small, roosting Pidove. Feeling the sudden chill of the night air, the bird awoke, then took flight to perch itself upon Ghost’s shoulder; as it did, Graham spotted something strapped to its left talon, which the shady mean unclipped and handed over to him.

“This carrier Pidove was sent to find you, but you’ve been hiding exceptionally well; not even a bird trained by the East Division could track you down,” said Ghost. “We intercepted it, but we soon realized who the Pidove’s message had been addressed to. Making sure you got it was the first purpose of this meeting.”

Graham stared at what Ghost gave him: a Poké Ball, shrunk to its carrying size, and a small black cylindrical container – the kind used by the Heimlan Army to send out written memos – whose seal had already been broken, no doubt by the eerie apparition in front of him. The longer he spent around Ghost, the more convinced Graham became that this man knew much more than he should about the inner workings of the military for someone he didn’t recognize. And it irked him beyond words.

Shifting his gaze between the cylinder and Ghost, Graham pulled out the small piece of paper within and unfolded it.

“Colonel Ford;

I hope this letter finds you well. It was the only way I could risk getting in touch with you, and it was critical that I did.

People are getting antsy about your disappearance. Even folk who have so far always supported you are starting to have second thoughts, not so much because you fled HQ in the first place, but because they were hoping you would’ve returned with your team by now… Still, most everything I’ve been hearing from the East Division people’s been chaff. What worries me is that General Tannhauser seems to have gotten word of the incident already… and he’s sending Brigadier General Aaron Loffley from Central HQ over to run a “parallel investigation”. Which we both know is a fancy way of saying General Tannhauser is transferring the responsibility of looking into Squad Six’s disappearance straight to his office.

By the time you receive this letter, Brigadier General Loffley should already have arrived. I’d be surprised if a series of “intense interrogations” doesn’t follow soon… I’m afraid I won’t be able to stall, let alone talk sense into, the guys from Central HQ like I’ve been reasoning with our own men. So you really need to hurry and clear everything up, before they come after you full-force!

I’ve made an important decision… The Poké Ball that goes with this message is mine; inside is good old Sauer… you know, the Pokémon you gave me all those years ago when I joined. I think you’ll need him more than I do, so… please take care of him. And come back as quickly as possible, please!

See you soon;

Nathan Hawke.”

Graham inhaled deeply, stored the letter in his pocket and clutched Sauer’s Poké Ball tightly. There was a million thoughts swirling in his head, but one in particular jumped to the forefront of his mind.

“You read this?!” he barked furiously at Ghost. If there was thing Graham absolutely could not tolerate, it was the invasion of his beloved privacy – especially in a situation as delicate as the one he was in now.

Ghost let out what Graham assumed was to be a chuckle, but instead came out as a strange crackling noise.

“How else would I know whom it was addressed to? Had I not, you never would have received Sauer.” Graham felt a surge of blood rushing to his neck upon hearing Ghost address Nathan’s Grovyle by codename, but the man continued. “He saved Nathan’s life at one point… maybe he’ll do the same for you in the future.”

Finally, Graham lost it. He jolted forward, grabbed Ghost by the tunic’s collar and pushed him closer to his face. He’d had enough of the man’s games and insinuations.

“Tell me who you really are, right now! How do you know so damn much?!”

A stone-cold silence followed, the tension in the air so high it was miracle nobody came to blows – although, judging by Axel’s body language, Graham fully expected the Unova Champion to lunge at him right there and then. Wild Card walked away from the fountain and toward the pair, but stopped midway when Ghost, still in Graham’s grasp, raised his arm.

“The Colonel deserves to know, Axel.”

“But… I thought you…” Axel was stammering, visibly stunned by Ghost’s decision. “Are you sure about this? I thought you didn’t take sides!”

“I don’t expect you to understand”, whispered Ghost, not making a single effort to break free. “In a way, I still answer to Colonel Ford… the original Blitz.”

Graham’s grip softened. He’d first heard that, from someone in the East Division, a long time ago; the expression had stuck, although he despised the “veteran” connotation behind it. Now that he thought about, the one who’d coined the phrase was a younger soldier he’d always held a great deal of respect for…

“… Glott?!”

A dry chuckle confirmed it well before Ghost spoke again. Incredulous, Graham let the bandaged man loose, and took a step back in disbelief.

“Indeed, Colonel. I am Private Otis Glott of the Blitz Unit,” he declared, with unsettling tranquillity. “Or I would be, had I not been pronounced dead and the squad disbanded by order of the East Division.”

This couldn’t be. Everyone knew what had happened to the Unit three years before; two officers had gone rogue and slaughtered the rest of the team, then defected the Army to form a mercenary group known as Blood Money. Rob Ryker and Ray Talbot, branded personae non grata and national traitors, had been on the run since then, thwarting every effort by the East Division to capture them.

The only one who made it back from that mission was Nathan… there were no other survivors. How the hell is this possible?!

Graham didn’t want to believe it, but Ghost’s eye colour did match Otis’s from what he remembered, as did the impossibly calm demeanour. Graham had always nurtured a sort of silent sympathy for that particular Private, whom he recalled as being a rather exceptional soldier: tall and muscular, while also lightning-fast on his feet, but more importantly extremely rational and level-headed, he stuck out as a perfect fit for the Blitz Unit right from his entry exams. Just like he wound up doing with Nathan years later, Graham had personally vouched for Otis to be admitted into the Blitz Unit shortly after his enrolment in the Division, and his gamble had paid off. Otis brought some much-needed maturity to the Unit, whose star players up until that point were – ironically – Talbot and Ryker, two revolutionary punks the Colonel simply couldn’t stand.

It was their promotion to Blitz that made me step away from the Unit entirely. Otis made me care for that team again, long after I stopped being a part of it… And now this shell of a man, this broken, malnourished human being, is claiming to be the same brilliant kid from back then? It’s not possible, dammit! Otis is dead!

Axel, clearly upset at Ghost’s revelation, couldn’t hold back and interjected himself into the conversation once more, attempting to get back on track.

“There, we delivered your package. Now it’s time you do something for us!”

Rattled by the unexpected revelation, Graham did not take kindly to Wild Card’s intromission, and barked back with unbridled ferocity.

“This doesn’t concern you, boy! Nothing about Heiml is your damn business!” The Colonel’s voice was a fierce roar, and was enough to leave Axel dumbfounded and visibly startled.

“I beg to differ,” retorted Ghost, as calmly as he’d always spoke up until that point. “The Unovan Champion is my ally. We are after the same thing, and were hoping you could point us in the right direction.” A sudden, violent cough overwhelmed him, and the man was forced to stop and catch his breath afterwards.

Pitiful. How can you be Otis, Ghost?...

Axel, concerned about his friend’s well-being, continued in his stead. Graham might not like the way the Unovan carried himself, but there was denying Ghost seemed to be in good hands.

“Listen bud, Ghost is who he says he is, and we’d appreciate it if that fact remained between us. He and I are after two men, and we were hoping you could tell us of their whereabouts.”

Graham raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Axel’s common interest with the frail man. Why would a Unovan be after a couple of Heimlans? Especially if they were who he suspected…

“Ghost… no, let’s say you’re actually Glott,,” he forced himself to accept temporarily, “are you after Ryker and Talbot?”

Once the cough subsided, Ghost nodded. Axel once again replied in his stead.

“Damn right. We ain’t fighting your wars, we just wanna settle the score with those bastards.”

Before Graham could inquire, Ghost provided the missing explanation.

“They destroyed me. The Unit was all I had, Colonel. Because of them, I lost my team and my life,” he whispered. “I want retribution. I might not be as skilled in espionage as your teammates Van Dillan and Frank Vicker, but I too have eyes and ears in a lot of places.”

As he spoke, Graham noticed a pair of red eyes blinking within Ghost’s shadow, cast by the nearby lamp-post. Noticing the Colonel’s shifting gaze, Ghost let out another weak chuckle.

“Yes, this Gengar is the reason for my continued existence,” he said with a note of bitterness to his raspy voice. “He used to be Sheppard’s partner… when Troy was shot in cold blood that night, reaching for his Poké Ball was my only salvation. They shot me too, but this ghost spirited away my soul. When Talbot and Ryker burned down the tank hangar and left, he possessed my body and gave it the strength to flee, though just barely,” he exemplified by placing a hand on the bandaged half of his face.

Graham listened in silence, growing even more conflicted. What if all of this was true?

“After that, I guess you could say we share a Destiny Bond, this Gengar and I.” The way he spoke was supposed to sound amused, but his voice was so shattered that it was almost impossible to notice the distinction from its usual tone. “I’ve been keeping tabs on Blood Money’s movements, but lost them recently. I need you to tell me what you know about them.”

Graham shook his head. He was more and more inclined to believe Ghost’s tale, but that only made everything sadder – for a man as brilliant as Glott to be moved by something so trivial as revenge…

But can I blame him? If they left me in that sorry state, I’d wanna kill them a hundred times over too.

“Sorry, but Mr. King there doesn’t fit in your story. Even if you got a motive to hunt them down, this is still none of the Unovan’s business.” Graham despised all manner of surprises, outliers and unknown factors; he wasn’t about to divulge military info in front of Wild Card, even if it concerned the two biggest traitors in the history if the Heimlan Army who by all accounts should hang for their crimes.

Axel prepared to reply in kind, but again a raise of Ghost’s hand silenced him, and it was the once-Private Glott who spoke instead.

“Gavin King, from Demolition, was killed recently,” he said bluntly. “Axel came from Unova to find the people responsible… our intel points to Blood Money.”

“Brody’s student? I… didn’t know,” Graham was forced to reply earnestly. “But we’re at war, he could’ve been killed in action. Listen kid, my sentiments and all, but your brother knew what he was signing up for. No such thing as foul play in war.”

If Axel was in any way perturbed by Graham’s lack of sensibility, he didn’t show it; Ghost probably warned him beforehand.

“His unit was raided by mercs near the frontier,” the young Champion replied coldly. “Ghost’s data points to those bastards being responsible. So I also want a shot at those SOBs!”

“I don’t want you to look at Sauer as a bargaining chip; he is yours, like Nathan wanted. I’m relying on your good will instead, Colonel,” Ghost pleaded. “I will play no further role in this war until I lay my ghosts to rest.”

Graham did sympathize. He, too, had stepped away from the conflict itself for a personal reason: right now, finding Squad Six was all that mattered to him, and he was even on the run from his own Division. And truth be told, although he wanted nothing to do with the Blitz Unit traitors, he’d always force himself to keep up to date on their movements thanks to his team’s trio of elite spies – after all, Blood Money were legitimately dangerous and on Saigo’s payroll.

“Alright, fine. Although my intel is probably outdated as well; I got no means to keep an eye on them anymore. Last I heard, they were holed up in the mountain range near Jormun City to the northeast; Dillan’s info, if I recall, so it’s bound to be accurate, unless they moved out recently.”

Axel smiled, and Ghost nodded, both relived that Graham decided to cooperate. Graham, in turn, still wasn’t sure he should have said anything, but he felt compelled to trust Ghost out of the sheer respect he had for the man he once was.

“I’m glad we met one another, Colonel. For many reasons.” Ghost sounded honest, and Graham discovered that he felt the same way; if not for Otis Glott, Nathan’s Grovyle likely never would have reached him. “Although I would like to stress what Axel already told you…”

“Who the hell is Ghost?”

“Exactly. Thank you Colonel,” concluded Ghost, before walking away from the square and into the darkness of Edda’s night. He stopped midway, however, and peered over his shoulder. “Oh, and try to remember Operation BG… somewhere near Surt Village in the western border, I believe that’s where you were headed.” With that, Ghost vanished.

Graham was left static, stunned, pondering on Glott’s words, so much so that he didn’t even hear Axel say his own goodbyes. It was as if someone had hit a switch, and an influx of memories started to flood his mind.

“Operation BG”… That’s what we named our unsanctioned mission. We went to Surt in search of something… I remember we made it there. So that’s where I have to go!

All alone in the middle of the small square, the Colonel looked up to the night sky and took a deep breath. This impromptu meeting had been worth it after all; Graham had just found a new hope, a new direction, and another ally to help him get there. He clutched Sauer’s Poké Ball in his hand, then tossed it to the floor, causing it to snap open; it was time to introduce himself to Nathan’s protector.

~~~~~​

​

A man stood in front of the Gate of Ludwig, ready to confront his fate. Levin Sanders, twenty four year-old Ace Trainer from Saffron City, Kanto, had finally made it. To the blonde, green-eyed man, this was a sort of homecoming, now that he thought about it - he was of Heimlan ascendance on his mother's side, which explain his northerner features, and in hindsight, maybe he should have come to Heiml much sooner. Instead, he'd opted to journey across Fizzytopia, a vast region in the center of the Pokémon World, for the past five years.

With no professional circuit to speak of. The traveling made me stronger, no doubt, and the supervising and refereeing jobs gave me maturity. But what I've always craved was battling... why didn't I come here earlier?

Back in Fizzytopia, Levin had made quite a name for himself, and had become notorious for several reasons. He'd accomplished a great deal in his travels, and was overtime tasked with the duty of guiding other Trainers on their own journeys. But his undeniable skills came with an equally-large ego, and he was never one to do anything without gaining something in return. He was the first to admit it - he was boisterous, self-centered and even manipulative when necessary... but he was also damn good at what he did. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have come to Caer Valheim.

Heimlans weren't fond of strangers, much less outsiders challenging their precious Elite. Levin's case was made worse by the fact that he had bypassed the entire Gym Circuit with the help of Luther C. Helford, a very influent man from Castelia, who had negotiated Levin's entry directly into the Victory Road based on his "officially-recognized achievements under the banner of the Fizzytopian Government".

I couldn't wait. I've trained incessantly and endured five years of anonimity; I wasn't about to fight through eight Gyms to get here. My only target is Gottfried.

Levin took a deep breath and stepped forward. Heavy in both construction and significance, the stone doors known as the Gate of Ludwig opened slowly as he pushed them, putting considerable physical effort in the endeavor. Light filled the hall beyond, revealing a large circular room with five doors side by side on the far end, each with a balcony above it. The floor was a map of the Heiml Region carved in stone, and there were no statues, tapestries or paintings anywhere to be seen - though the five doors themselves were sculptural masterpieces, crafted to unbelievable degree of detail, each with its own mythological themes depicted on the surface, but the scenes's details were imperceptible from a distance. Leaning on each balcony was a Trainer, and all five of them had their eyes on Levin Sanders.

"Step forward, Challenger. Introduce yourself."

The voice was deep, booming, bursting with a kind of authority that Levin had never heard before. That was, no doubt, Champion Gottfried Haraldson.

He took a deep breath and stood in the middle of the map-floor (realizing Caer Valheim stood at the very center of that map). He'd expected to be nervous beyond belief, unable to say a word... but instead, he found himself feeling irritated by the sight of five other Trainers looking down on him from their perches. If they wanted to gaze at him from a pedestal, they'd have to beat him first!

"I'm Levin Sanders, from Saffron City. The next Heimlan Champion."

Immediately, a woman's voice erupted in laughter from the balcony furthest to his left. Levin immediately identified her as Brunhilde, the only female member of the Elite Four, a female warrior with light-pink hair, donning the fabled Valkyrie's silver suit of armor.

"Hah! A "Champion" who got here carrying papers instead of Badges! What a treat."

So, they know. Luther Helford's documents were perfectly valid, granting me direct access to the League, but they don't care about any of that. I didn't beat their Gym Circuit, so they think I'm not worthy.

"I got here with Pokémon strong enough to beat yours," Levin found himself spouting in return. "Nothing else should matter."

Before the armor-wearing lady could retort, someone else spoke up. This time, it was a red-haired man on the balcony to Levin's farthest right.

"Big words, coming from someone who's achieved nothing since arriving at Heiml."

Levin smiled. That one would be Bernhardt. The man was probably in his thirties, tall and lean, and wore a gray and orange trenchcoat with no sleeves.

"I defeated Borg, the Carracosta from Victory Road," the challenger replied, thinking back to his victory over the millennia-old being that dwelled in isolation in the deepest part of the cave. "And while we're at it, I also beat your mother Agnes... soundly too, at her own game." On his trip from Salin City to Yggra City, aboard the S.S. Bifrost, Levin had met the Elite Four's mother, the "Red Widow" Agnes, Fire-Type Gym Leader taking after her late husband, and father of Bernhardt, Ignatius. During their friendly clash on the deck, Levin had defeated the old woman using his own Fire Pokémon, earning the Leader's respect. The Elite would have known about it by now, no doubt, but rubbing it in a little further felt appropriate - it was his only possible defense against the belittling onslaught he now felt subjected to.

"Silence."

Again the commanding, overpowering roar, coming from the man on the central balcony. Taller than all the others, and considerably older too, Gottfried's presence was unmistakable. The voice, the daimonji-shaped white beard, the massive crimson robe with golden embroidery... No human he'd ever met came close to being as imposing or fearsome as the Champion of Heiml.

"Your past achievements are meaningless in here. All that matters now is what you do inside these walls. Now, choose your first opponent; I grow weary of idle banter."

With that, the Champion turned around and vanished, leaving Levin alone with the Elite Four. As if rehearsed, they spoke one after another, starting on the Pokémon Master on the far right.

"I am Bernhardt, son of Ignatius. I wield the brightest of flames. I await your challenge."

With that, he too left the circular room, retreating into his chambers. Next spoke a dark-green haired man wearing a black and blue vest, about as old as Bernhardt but considerably bulkier.

"I am Sigurd, son of Sigmund. I control the strongest of currents. I await your challenge."

Once he disappeared, the third Elite spoke up; he'd expected a man of Gottfried's age or older still, bald and missing an eye, the legendary Drago, owner of the Haxorus Jaeger, the War Axe. Instead, a man no older than Levin himself, with spiky gray hair, no shirt and torn black trousers stood on the balcony.

"I am Ragnar, son of Drago. I command the mightiest of beasts. I await your challenge."

Levin definitely spotted a wicked - almost deranged - grin from the young man right before he walked away, and afterwards, the last Elite spoke: the woman who'd first mocked him.

“I am Brunhilde, daughter of Rollo. I lead the strongest of warriors. I await your challenge."

And once she left, Levin was all alone in the entry hall.

I can act tough all I want, but the truth is, they all gave me shivers. Gottfried is every bit as scary in the flesh as I'd heard, but so are all those other guys... And they don't have a lick of respect for me. I wish I could say I'm gonna beat some into them and believe it, but truth is... I'm starting to doubt myself. What if I go in there and lose right off the bat?

Despite his apprehension, not all was lost. He'd chosen his on-hand team based on a hunch... and he'd been correct. Either he'd be allowed to choose his first opponent, or they'd come in a fixed order - this was common practice in his home region of Kanto, but he'd grown to know the people of Heiml overtime. They'd do everything they could not to tilt the odds in their favor, and that would almost certainly force them to give him the choice. And so they did.

Which means I have the perfect team for my first challenge.

He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving every important moment of his journey in his head. The better part of five years... that's how long it'd taken him to get here. So he'd be damned if he was going to lose now!

With newfound determination, he stepped boldly towards his door of choice: the one farthest to the left... Brunhilde's chamber.

~~~~~​

“I’m afraid that’s where I drop you off, friend. Road’s pretty terrible from here to Surt.”

Graham nodded, paid the driver and got off the cab.

“It’s good enough as it is. I’ll go on foot from here.”

Being one of the most populous cities in Heiml, the public transport network in and around Edda was fortunately very well organized. It had taken Graham no time at all to find a ride to Surt Village the morning after his meeting with Ghost, although the journey had been long and, therefore, considerably expensive. Cab drivers had to make a living like everyone else, but the Colonel really couldn’t vouch for the current fares. Still, it was better than nothing – even if the man had dropped him off roughly an hour’s walk away from the actual village.

The terrain is inhospitable this close to the border; Surt is a remote settlement and the tortuous paths leading to it are best travelled on Mudsdale-back than anything else. Won’t blame the guy for not risking his suspension.

The air was dry and cold – the latter being nothing new to any Heimlan -, but unlike most of the northernmost region of the world, there was very little in the way of vegetation on the western border of Heiml which connected it to the neighbouring region of Asbel. The ground was arid and lifeless, a sprawling, uneven mass of clay punctuated by the occasional boulder and dry bush.

I remember being here. We all were...Brody said the place looked beautiful, “the dreamland of a Demolition guy”. Damn it, I miss those guys! What the hell happened on that day?!

The sudden feeling of loneliness overwhelmed him, and the desolate landscape did nothing to improve his mood. Craving company, however uncharacteristic of the rough man, he released his three Pokémon companions to join him on the final stretch to Surt Village.

The trio of soldiers he now carried was a curious group. His first partner, Ruger, had been with him for years now, and had grown into a powerful Monferno overtime; cocky, flashy and boisterous, he had no qualms about going all-out against any kind of opponent, so long as he got to look good doing it – in a way, Ruger was everything Graham wasn’t, and that was why they complemented one another so perfectly. Then there was Tanegashima, a Froakie given to him by Nathan Hawke before the Colonel left HQ; the Water-Type was silent, introspective and lacked any sort of sense of humour, and regarded Ruger as his rival, even if he knew he couldn’t hold a candle to the Monferno’s current power. Their last battle had been the one on the park back at Edda City, and despite Ruger having beaten Tanegashima soundly yet again, the latter had come closer than ever to actually dealing damage to the Fire-Type.

It’s just a matter of time. Before long, they’ll be equals.

The third Pokémon, a new face in the group, intentionally stood a few feet away from the other two. Sauer, Nathan’s Grovyle, was completely familiar with Graham of course; back when Nathan had requested personal training past curfew with the Colonel, turning him into a night combat and survival specialist, it was the Grass-Type who’d battled alongside the Private against Graham’s Ruger night after night. But this time, things were different… now he belonged to Graham. And despite the Careful-natured Pokémon possessing an unwavering sense of loyalty comparable to Tanegashima, it was the first time in over five years that he found himself separated from Nathan. He understood his purpose, of course, but…

“Ruger,” growled the Colonel, “do you remember any of this?”

The Monferno shook his head. It was to be expected; back then, he probably didn’t have his Pokémon outside… He motioned for the three to follow him, and set off on the path towards the village. All the while, with each step, he wrecked his brain trying to remember Squad Six’s purpose for coming to this location…

Nothing! Goddammit! I know I’m on the right track, but… What was Operation BG? Why did I bring everyone on this mission? And why the hell does Ghost know of it?

Perhaps more unsettling than everything else was the fact that Otis Glott seemed to know more than he did, since the Private wasn’t even part of the Squad. Because if the deadman knew, who else did? And why didn’t he?

Some fifteen minutes later, Surt Village finally came into view. Or rather… what remained of it.

What the hell happened here?!

Ruined buildings, with roofs torn off and walls broken down, were the only thing left of the once-merry settlement. No smoke or flames rose from the devastated area, indicating that whatever had transpired probably took place quite some time ago. As the group entered the village-turned-debris, not a single person or Pokémon came to meet them – Surt was now a ghost town in shambles, and Graham had heard nothing about it. How could this be?

Surt used to be a beautiful, small village, known for its cottage-like houses with unique dark red roofs, made from the crimson-coloured bloodstraw that once grew abundantly in the area. Once the land surrounding the settlement turned hopelessly arid, bloodstraw disappeared, which was why newer buildings had roofs made of dry reed, hand-painted in red to resemble the original material of the older houses’ ceilings. But none of that mattered anymore, because not a single construction had been left standing after whatever it was that had ravaged Surt.

Graham looked around, puzzled. Despite not remembering any details surrounding the mission itself, he was certain Surt didn’t look like that when he’d last been there. No, he was positive he’d never laid eyes on this devastation… which meant that whatever happened, it did so after Squad Six’s last mission.

Or during it…

He was having a hard time coming to terms with the harsh reality of things: Ghost had sent him in the right direction, only for his hopes to go up in smoke… just like Surt Village had. There was nothing left that could serve as a lead, and nobody around to even ask. Try as they may, neither Graham nor his partners could find anything to go on, any sign of the missing team…

And then, out of the blue, lightning struck.

“What the –?“

A golden bolt of electricity fell from the sky, without hint or warning, straight on Graham’s position. Its furious descent was only countered at the last second by Sauer’s timely leap, blocking the discharge with his bladed arm. The ion burst enveloped the Grovyle, pushing him down to the ground with impressive force, but he endured the move thanks to his innate resistance to electricity. Alarmed, Graham stepped back instinctively, scanning the perimeter as he did, in search of the assailant. And indeed, he found him, perched atop a collapsed pillar of a nearby building.

No… no way!

He wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Looking down upon him, with a look of sheer rage and disdain, was an Electabuzz. But not just any Electabuzz… there was no mistaking it, and Ruger was just as sure.

“Wesson… Wesson, you’re here!”

Brigadier General Wolfe’s oldest partner, Ruger’s one true rival, and right now the beam of hope that made Graham believe. If the Electabuzz was here, then that meant…

“Wesson, it’s us, Graham and Ruger!” shouted the Colonel, “Where’s Wolfe?!”

As if possessed upon hearing his Trainer’s name, Wesson jumped down from the broken pillar and, all of a sudden, dashed towards Graham with an electrified fist!

“Wh-what the hell are you doing?!”

The Electabuzz’s fist was blocked by Ruger’s own inches away from Graham’s chest, the Monferno’s Mach Punch colliding with Wesson’s Thunder one and catching the attacker off-guard.

Sauer had recovered by then, and Tanegashima was equally prepared to battle, but neither made a move. Somehow, both could sense that this was Ruger’s battle. And that it was – he might not know why Wesson was behaving like this, but it had been way too damn long since he last had a go at his rival! Fists flew in every direction, blow after blow countered by both sides; when Ruger somersaulted into the air, enveloped by fire to create a sizzling Flame Wheel, an Electro Ball at point-blank range exploded on contact, pushing both fighters several feet back across the dry surface of the clay floor, with neither falling down.

“Wesson, stop! What’s gotten into you?!”

Graham couldn’t make sense of the Electabuzz’s behaviour. The Electric-Type had always been calmer and more mature than Ruger, and not once had he seen him lose his temper, not even in the heat of battle. Wesson took after Garrett Wolfe in level-headedness, the ideal partners in the riskiest missions of Squad Six, so to see him behave like this, as if possessed, was thoroughly puzzling. And Graham hated puzzles.

Wesson’s berserk rage put even more weight into each of his punches, but clouded his judgement; Ruger, on the other hand, had learned a great deal in both humility and tactical thinking during a detour they’d made towards the National Park. Realizing his rival’s mindset impaired his critical thinking, the Monferno took the opportunity to Plot a Nasty comeback – and once Wesson prepared to unleash the full extent of his power in the shape of a massive, wild Thunder, Ruger capitalized by firing off a vicious Flamethrower before the Electabuzz was done charging his taxing manoeuvre. Flames washed over Wesson, empowered by the Fire-Type’s previous setup, but once they subsided, the Electric ape was still standing!

“Please Wesson,” shouted Graham in his hoarse tone, “we need to find the rest of the Squad! Stop this nonsense and take me to Wolfe!!”

Again, the mention of the Brigadier General’s name seemed to trigger something inside Wesson, but once he prepared to go on another rampage, his injured body gave out; the Electabuzz fell to his knees, physically and mentally exhausted, and began punching the ground repeatedly in frustration…

This isn’t the same Wesson I knew. He’s a broken mess. What happened?...

Taking pity on the defeated soldier, Graham walked over to Wesson and dropped to one knee to look him in the eye. The Electric-Type stared back, and the Colonel again saw nothing but cold contempt in the warrior’s eyes… why did he harbour so much hatred towards him?

“Wesson, I… I want to know what happened. I don’t remember anything,” Graham confessed, figuring that the only way to go was to be as honest as he could. “I’ve been looking for Squad Six for weeks now, I almost gave up! You are the first teammate I’ve ran into since I left HQ… I wish I knew what happened, but all I can remember was returning to camp by myself, with Ruger inside his Ball. Please, tell me what happened! Wesson, please!”

Whatever it was that the Electabuzz seemed to blame Graham for, it was overpowering enough to make him want to kill him; but the Colonel’s pleading voice was something Wesson had never heard before, and it seemed to calm him somewhat. As if wanting to believe him, Wesson struggled back to his feet, and slowly walked towards the west outskirts of the destroyed village, without looking back.

“Let’s follow him.”

When the group joined up with the Electabuzz, they saw him looking down at a massive crater, which extended from the edge of town all the way past the (virtual) frontier and well into Asbel grounds.

This, I remember. A century-old scar left on the earth after a clash between Legendary Pokémon; there was something on the wall of that crater, there was… damn it… right, a cave!

Wesson turned around to face Graham. The anger on his face had been replaced by an insurmountable sadness; the sight obviously triggered as many painful memories as the Colonel’s mentions of Garrett Wolfe. Graham, in turn, looked around for the cave’s entrance down in the depths of the crater, to no avail.

“I remember we came here. We went into the cave for some reason… Wesson, where is it?”

Reluctantly, the Electric-Type raised a hand and unleashed a Thunderbolt towards the crater’s east wall; the lightning hit the wall’s surface below, colliding against an unremarkable pile of rocks and dispersing afterwards.

“You… you mean…” Graham stammered incredulously, “that used to be the entrance?!”

Disheartened, Wesson nodded. Then, eyes cast on the ground, he walked back towards the village, passing by a dumbfounded Graham, who’d begun to piece everything together as he stared blankly at the crater.

It can’t be…

Wesson had stopped in front of one of the ruined houses, and was on his knees. Still trying to adjust to the current onslaught of revelations, Graham finally walked over to him, but before he could speak, another sight left him breathless – as if someone had punched him the gut so hard, all the air had been forcibly removed from his lungs.

N-no. No… no way. No!!

A mound of soil and dirt had been piled together, as if something had been buried beneath. On top of the rubble, five medals had been carefully placed in the same arrangement as they would feature on a Heimlan officer’s uniform. A Brigadier General’s uniform, to be precise.

“Wesson… is this?...”

Another punch was thrown towards the ground, and a pillar of electricity shot upwards from the Electabuzz as he cried in anguish. Graham could do nothing but drop to his knees alongside Wesson, and found no words to say. And so, he cried as well.

~~~~~​

“General Tannhauser, sir!”

A nervous-looking man, shakily twirling his black moustache, walked into Roderick Tannhauser’s office. Sergeant Aaron Loffley could never quite keep his composure around the ultimate authority figure of the Heimlan Army.

“Any news, Sergeant?” nonchalantly asked Tannhauser, while he leaned over a small map of the Heiml region opened across his desk.

“I-it seems the, the challenger… has already d-defeated two members of the Elite F-Four, sir.”

Tannhauser lifted his blueish-green eyes from the map and stared straight at Sergeant, who instinctively gulped and took a step back.

“Well. Seems I must pay Caer Valheim an urgent visit, then.”

With that, the General picked up his black-and-red Golurk’s Cherish Ball, and dismissed the officer.



----------------------


((Posting for money.
Levin Sanders was a character I roleplayed with for five years in another Pokemon RPG, and this is the first step towards incorporating him into this story; he'll be further fleshed out in coming chapters, which shouldn't prove too hard with five-years worth of content posted on another site ;P
I know this chapter - again - doesn't have much in the way of stakes, but this is a problem with episodic writing: sometimes, the biggest stakes just don't have a place in a particular chapter. This was one such case - it was meant to just push the plot along a little further.
Cheers!))

 

Diiiiibs!

 

THE INTRODUCTION STUFF

Woah.

This is a great scene to look at in the context of your entire story—having gotten to know Ford pretty well throughout our exchanges, this caught my attention immediately. I chalked off not knowing who he was facing/why he was in this strange place to my not reading Part 5, which made the surprise of “OH SHIT NOW HE’S DYING JK MAYBE NOT” all the more sweeter. This was a hook in every sense of the word, and I think you carried the suspense of this scene masterfully.

On a macro-scale, getting fresh introductions for a multi-chapter story is difficult: you want to entice the reader with bits of your plot, but you can’t assume too much about what the reader knows about your story. I think this sequence juggled that balance pretty well: you do drop a lot of nouns near the end (for instance, I haven’t seen the Book of Jeth before, but that could just be a memory thing), but it doesn’t feel terribly overwhelming. Having this weird potential-future as an opening is a good way to introduce readers to what is a lengthy story without bogging them down in the details: we get the impression of high stakes, lots of things potentially being lost, and a dark future that we want to avoid—but you don’t actually have to invest in any of that, because reasons/time travel/maybe? The end result is an intriguing hook for an overarching plot.

This ends up being two-sided, though: on a micro-scale, I was frustrated that none of this really came up during the course of this particular installment. I was looking for hints of some of the characters re-appearing in the current timeline, and maybe there’s a big reveal coming up or I missed some foreshadowing, but for this individual part of your story, this introductory scene feels very disjointed from the rest. The key elements of this introduction that I was looking for in the rest of your story: Ford, the dude who murders Ford, and however you want to implement alternate timelines/realities/futures/whatever you call this. Your story itself has plenty of Ford, but the other two elements get left out, and given how huge they are to the success of this introduction, it feels like a bit of a letdown.

THIS LINE IS SO DELICIOUSLY DRAMATIC BUT I LOVE IT.


THE STORY STUFF

This felt like it would be a difficult story to write, or at least one that isn’t in the styles I’ve seen from you: it’s a lot more worldbuilding, the character development is a lot more subtle (and with mostly-established characters, rather than introducing lots of new ones), and the plot is a cross between “guy on the run” and “gathering forces for phase two?” This results in a smaller, quieter plot that simultaneously holds up a lot of weight for the rest of your narrative.

And you do mention the “not much in the way of stakes” in your author’s note, so let’s take a step back and look at one of the weirder parts of episodic writing: what makes a chapter a chapter?

My comment on stories needing stakes from chapter 2 may not have come across the way I intended: stakes imply an element of uncertainty. Your main characters might not succeed, and worse, they might lose something that’s really important. And this story has stakes in spades: your protagonist is on the run, sheltering with people who might not be trusted, being haunted by some mysterious figures from his past, and pretty much set up to lose a war. And he’s not hurdling over his problems: honestly, at the end of this chapter, he still looks pretty fucked. So tons of stakes here.

What you are missing is, like, explosive plot, but that brings us back to that first question of what makes a chapter a chapter. The short answer is that no one can really say. The longer answer is that each chapter should leave the reader with something that they didn’t have before. This something can be whatever you want—from a bunch of plot points, some funny jokes, a sad feeling, idk—but the something should be enough to justify the time investment for reading. For example, a really shitty pun is funny if I tell it to you in a sentence, but if I sat you down for half an hour and the buildup is “I’m cold” / “hi cold, I’m Dad,” you might appreciate the joke a lot less.

Which is super frustrating, because no one really knows what the proper amount of time investmentayoff is, and a lot of people get payoff out of different things. The best I can offer you: there weren’t world-ending stakes in here, but, for a large portion of the story, you were able to carry a decent amount of interest for the time I spent reading it. Keeping people invested while focusing on the softer details of your background is a lot more difficult than it sounds—and, ironically, a lot of it ties back into stakes. I’m a lot more interested in the world you’re building because all these mundane details could be wiped away in the war you’ve got waging in the background.

So with the pedantic out of the way, let’s jump into where I thought your story may have lagged a bit: you had some issues marrying worldbuilding with an actual story. Some portions, such as the GyaraDome and some of the Elite 4, read a bit like an atlas. There were tons of cool details floating around, but they didn’t really tie in to the plot and it was hard to pay attention to them. More importantly, they didn’t tie in to each other. There’s the champ introduction, the introduction of Ghost, the revelation of Ghost’s backstory, the really cool Elite For, and then more Graham stuff, and then Wesson—it’s like a big train of events that I know are supposed to be important with none of the understanding for why they’re important. There were really cool details with the Elite Four, and you made them sound all ominous, but outside of some veiled political struggle, how is Levin’s success/lack thereof important to Graham’s story, which you have going on in the foreground?

AND I’M A LITTLE TORN HERE. Because you tend to set up things really well and I certainly don’t want to tell you to flat-out say “X IS IMMPORTANT BECAUSE Y”, but here it was honestly really hard to tell what stitched this collection of scenes into a coherent part of a story. This ties back into your introduction feeling out-of-synch with the rest of the plot—the whole thing skates between being a series of semi-unrelated vignettes, except a lot of them are related through Graham, but a lot of the other details don’t really appear to be.

In long-winded conclusion: parts of a story need to have some relation to each other, I think. For a chapter to feel complete, the events inside of it need to have some meaningful relation to each other, as well as to the overarching story—and this is one of the most difficult tasks of episodic writing. You seem to have a pretty well-thought trajectory for the overall story, but I think you might be lacking a little completeness in the individual parts. Don’t take this the wrong way—this was still very enjoyable when read with the other chapters in mind, but it was a little odd for a standalone.


final notes: GODDAMMIT YOU KILLED WOLFE?!


THE PRETTY STUFF

You have a really strong knack for making people with cool titles sound badass. Your Elite Four sounded awesome, I liked the tiny lore you fed us with their lineage/specialties, and you managed to make the champion there sound really, really intimidating. Even tiny details like Borg the Carracosta, which you mention for less than a sentence, add so much depth and epicness to this story and really tie it together. GOOD STUFF.

Moving forward: this was partially more apparent because you had a lot of one-off character overviews, but you tend to describe people in the same way. You usually fall into the trap of “X was a [man/woman] with [color] hair and [color] eyes,” and then maybe some references to their outfits, and that’s usually it. Don’t be afraid to stretch yourself—especially when you’re introducing four people at once, like you did in the Elite Four (sorry for referencing this scene so often; it really stuck out to me), it’s helpful to have some more differentiators for them than hair/eye color/type specialty. Imagine looking at someone for the first time. Hair and eye color are things you see, sure, but you tend to notice things about them that they have that other people don’t: maybe they walk favoring their right side or twitch their lips when they finish talking or treat everything like it’s really, really delicate. Explore a little. It’s surprising how much you can identify a person based on a single, unique thing that they do.

Otherwise, I would watch your paragraph sizing in a few places: for example, the chunk of text describing “The Dome” is enormous and a bit daunting to look at, and I ended up getting lost around halfway in.

Overall, very clean, very shiny prose. Good work!


THE MECHANICAL STUFF

A fair amount more typos than I’m used to seeing from you—perhaps just because this work is longer than normal. It’s mostly in the realm of words that are spelled correctly being used in the place of other words that are also spelled correctly (ie “however picked Joton square for the rendez-vous knew what they were doing”), which is harder to pick up with spellcheck/etc.

I REALLY HATE DOING THIS, BUT IT WORKS SO WELL. Sitting and reading your work aloud, even if just to yourself, really forces you to slow down and iron out things like that. It also helps you get a better sense for your narrative flow, makes your dialogue feel more realistic, and creates wonderful conversation starters when someone inevitably walks in on you. :’)

Some semantic punctuation stuff:

I think for informal titles/nicknames, you actually use single quotes instead of double quotes. never mind; did some research and this is a stupid British vs American English thing. PICK YOUR FAVORITE METHOD AND STICK WITH IT—but if you do find yourself using British grammar (which you do when you use dashes, and with “colour/demeanour” (British) vs “color/demeanor” (American)), you might want to use the British English notation for single vs double quotes (in this case, use single quotes for ‘Wild Card’).

This is super pedantic and honestly not at all important. Ask me specifically if you have questions about these details; otherwise, I think you’re doing fine. Great work on mastering dialogue tags, too; I know this was rough for you in the past.


LENGTH STUFF

This monster almost tops 75k. Wow.

The pacing is a bit of a mixed bag for me. On one hand, this moves slowly in terms of raw story: there’s not much that happens in this specific installment from a plot perspective, but there’s a ton of good worldbuilding and set-up for a greater conflict. I talked a bit about balancing this in the story section + you mentioned this story as being more of a plot-pusher, so I’ll leave that for now, but do be careful with how much ‘filler’ you have in your story, so to speak.


OVERALL STUFF

This was a bit dry the first time through, but after a second readthrough, I found myself enjoying it a lot more. I think part of it was how you approached worldbuilding: getting all the finer details was a lot easier on the second pass, and as such made the story a much more interesting read. Good stories don’t have to be the same experience every time through, and I did enjoy that there was a deeper dimension to it even on a second approach.

Overall: I think this has the requirements for a Demanding-rank $$$ capture (40k). I was a little on the fence here, but your attention to detail, creative characters, and overall sense of scope that this story conveyed tipped the scales for what was sometimes a slow read. Impressive work! don’t kill everyone next chapter okay

oh and this title wasn't super ominous for any of my attempting to trust what was being said here, not. at. all.

 

Thanks a bunch for the comments once again! I'll work on my pacing for the next chapters, I was already half-aware that chapter 6 was a worldbuilding overkill but hopefully I can make things a bit more lively going forward.
Except for your very last paragraph, I think I understood all of your advice thanks again!