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The end of things. A pokemon fanfic by Rocko Wallaby

DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 8: Beasts.

Leaving the corpse behind, I resumed my trek along the tree line, looking for further unusual signs that could give me a lead on what was happening here. Some thing was very wrong, and I needed to get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible. One thought kept plaguing me. Was it CERT? Had they returned to in the area, performing more illicit research? For a moment, I seriously considered returning back to my office and contacting HQ for further assistance. However, I decided that without any hard evidence backing my suspicions, there was really no way I could justify requesting any wider action by the Rangers. The nagging feeling wouldn't go away, though, and I kept a careful eye out for anything suspicious. Noon passed, and the afternoon crept by. By 4pm, with the sun behind the mountains, twilight began to descend, and I began thinking seriously of attempting to return to my base, even though I was unlikely have any chance of making it before full night fell. I'm not sure what prevented me from doing so. Perhaps it was just my stubborn streak, or a refusal to give in without an answer, but I continued on, circling the base of the mountains in the half light.

Then the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by a screeching bellow of pain, shattered the eerie silence. I immediately dropped to the ground, backing hurriedly against a nearby granite outcropping, while reaching frantically for my shotgun. Pulling it from its shoulder case, I flipped off the safety, and cautiously nosed my way around the protective rocks, keeping the shotgun muzzle ahead of me.

Shit! So much for Ranger Training! I hadn't seen or heard a thing!

Seeing past all the rocky rubble was difficult, but I could just make out something big thrashing on the ground around 50 meters away. Two figures approached it cautiously, both holding rifles, and one with a drawn hunting knife. Before I could react, the figure bent over the struggling creature, slitting its throat. It took a few minutes for it to die, and the bubbling gasps from it tore at me.

Fuck this.

I reached for my bow, quietly pulling it from its holster, and removing two arrows from my shoulder quiver. Kneeling behind the boulder, I placed one in the ground, point first, and sighted at the first of the poachers along the second. Drawing back the string till it was touching my lips, I released the first arrow, even while reaching for the second. I heard the "thunk" and a grunt of pain from the first poacher, as I released the second arrow at his partner. Another direct hit. Within a few seconds, they had both dropped to the ground, thrashing and screaming. Taking no chances, I approached cautiously, shotgun ready and with an ear out for any other poachers that might be nearby, but I needn't have bothered. By the time I reached them they were both dead.

Many would consider my actions harsh. However, they need to be reminded of two things. Firstly, since the Pokemon Protection Treaty of '72 was passed, needless and wanton taking of a life in this manner had only one consequence. It was a Rangers job to enforce this, as necessary.

Secondly, prior experience showed there was no use for mercy. It WAS an "Us or them" scenario. Too many good Rangers had died before the treaty, because they were forced to compromise on their safety for the sake of those who cared nothing for it in return, and refused to play by the rules.

Besides, they were poachers. Scum sucking filth. As I said, I hate poachers.

Checking for vitals confirmed my original thought. My first arrow had shot one poacher through the chest, puncturing through one lung and continuing to sever his spine. The second shaft had taken the man through the side, skewering his heart, and killing him instantly. I took no pleasure in the accuracy of my shots. There was a job needing doing, and I had done it.

I left the bodies, and went to examine the dead pokemon. It was a young tauros. Again, it had received a clean shot through the chest, disabling the creature before it could escape the men. Its throat was slashed almost to the point of severing its neck, with only the spine and lateral ligaments holding the lolling head in place. Blood was everywhere. Fuck, nothing subtle about this death. Otherwise, it had appeared healthy and, after examining it, female. It was young, probably just entering maturity. Death of a productive female of this age was a devastating blow to an endangered species already pushing hard towards extinction, and I felt a little better as to the fate of the two scumbags lying in their own filth nearby. No loss at all.

Speaking of filth, I returned to their corpses, flipping the first over onto its back, and examining it more carefully. The gear he wore was of excellent quality. Surprisingly so. Poachers rarely were equipped to this level. Normally, they were a houndoom's breakfast of salvaged, poor quality gear, thrown together as cheaply as possible. This was no normal poacher's equipment. It must have cost a fortune.

I checked the second body, finding a similar level of outfitting. Not normal.

Pulling some rubber disposable gloves from my pack, I gingerly but thoroughly began searching both bodies, looking for anything that might identify the two, avoiding contacting the blood stained garments as much as I could. The failing light made this difficult, but I knew that leaving them here overnight, where wild animals could disturb the bodies, might prevent any chance of finding out why they were out there, and who they were working for. Normally, little real usable evidence was found on such people, as in many cases, no identity for the corpses were discovered. In most situations, the poachers, and consequently their employers, did not want to be identified. I had nearly stripped the second body to its underwear before I struck pay dirt, pulling out a sealed package of documents, in a water tight pouch, located underneath his inner shirt lining. Popping the torch into my mouth to free up my hands, I opened the documents carefully with my gloved hands, trying to disturb them as little as possible. Little personal identification was present, mainly receipts for purchase of gear, which confirmed my prior suspicions that it was top notch, and newly purchased. In fact, the final balance was staggering, making the cost of my own equipment pale by comparison. All the goods had been charged using credit; a fact that gave a great deal of personal satisfaction. Such records were traceable, and the Rangers investigators were excellent in tracking all leads, both physical and electronic.

I began returning the documents back into their pouch, when a small piece of paper that had previously slipped my attention fell from the pile, falling to the ground. Bending over to pick it up, my questing fingers brought it into the torch light.

It was a business card I held. A Sinnotech business card. My fingers closed around it, crushing it in my palm, as I contemplated what it all meant, and what I had to do from here.

______________________________________________________

After the fiasco that had followed Storms escape from the CERT facility, the government funding for their research began to evaporate. Leaked documents and rumours of their methods began to surface, bringing into disrepute those in power who had supported them. Distancing themselves from the resultant media circus, those members of the government who had any involvement quickly divested themselves of any interest in the facility, as demands for action against the researchers became highly vocal.

If it hadn't been for the actions of one large private corporation, the entire project may have folded completely. However, that was not meant to be. Sinnotech, one of the largest privately owned companies on the continent, purchased their research and development, which promptly vanished from the public arena. As had CERT's head scientist, Dr Jameson.

With the majority of CERT researchers disbanded, and the specific details now suppressed in private company records, the entire situation quickly faded from public memory, soon becoming lost in media archives. For all except Storm, that is. He never forgot, and never forgave.

When Jameson had appeared at the graduation so many years later, it had been his first public appearance since his mysterious disappearance into Sinnotech. A lot of mystery surrounded the company. While posing as a legitimate business concern, many had doubts as to its actual motives. Some even felt it a front for illicit Team Chaos activities, although no one had ever managed to confirm a definite link between the crime gang and the company itself. While most of their dealings appeared above board, some bordered on the disreputable, although any individual investigating such matters often met with unforseen circumstances.

However, with Jameson's mysterious disappearance into the organisation, the matter died down, and soon public interest turned elsewhere.

But he was never forgotten. The Rangers, in particular, were looking for his head. Every rumour, every whisper, was investigated in detail. Over time, when nothing surfaced, even they began to give it up as a lost cause.

Until now, that was.

Here was the flaming gun, clenched tightly in my hands. A small piece of cardboard might finally put the issue to rest. We had Jameson, and his bosses at Sinnotech, this time...surely!

_____________________________________________________

Our first assignment as "Team Storm", as some comedian at HQ started calling us (and which unfortunately took off amongst our colleagues, much to Storm's disgust), was with an elite band of Rangers known internally as the Environmental Response Team, or the "Eco Police" to outsiders. It was their job to investigate possible links between the corporate world, and damage and abuse of the environment and its inhabitants. Storm and I fit in well, there. It was an honoured position, and we both felt extremely lucky that we were chosen to be part of their team.

Much of our work was educational, involving public awareness campaigns to promote environmental protection. However, underneath the green facade, was the real reason the Eco Police existed. Fucking up the corporate bad guys. The government funded us as a public duty, promised when their predecessors were elected, and following even earlier scandals, the EP became so good at their work however, they soon grew past a simple environmental department, and began tackling serious corporate criminals. While the government and their backers often hated us privately, it became political suicide to confront us directly. The public loved us, and anyone who was against us was clearly "dirty".

We did a lot of good in our time in the EP. From breaking up smuggling rings, to crashing the black market in animal products, we handled the lot of them. But one corporation always eluded us. Sinnotech.

We knew they were dirty. Fuck, everything they touched stank like sewerage. But they were like teflon toilet paper. The shit never stuck to them. For several years, the EQ, and the Rangers in general, sought for that one breakthrough that might expose them for who they were, and bring them to justice. Success eluded them.

Then, finally, we had it. They had slipped up, and we were onto it! We thought we'd nailed them! How wrong we were.

An anonymous tip from an informant we had thought was reliable, told of an isolated warehouse on the outskirts of town, being used as a storage facility for toxic chemicals that were due to be dumped in the forests to the far north of the city. All we had to do was catch them at it, and bring the whole lot of them down.

How easy it sounded.

The EP staked out the warehouse for days, documenting the coming and going of everyone involved, and building up our evidence to justify a strike.

Eventually, we had it. We were ready to move.

Because of his speed and agility, Storm was often picked as a part of first strike and recon. As his partner, I was "fortunate" enough to accompany him on most missions.

This was not one of those times. I was needed to keep a guiding eye on a group of rookies that had just graduated from Ranger Academy. We had been given a post directly behind some nearby offices, and told to keep a lookout for trouble from the rear.

The strike group approached the main doors to the warehouse, search warrant in hand. The workers they encountered were even cooperative, inviting them into the depths of the building to speak with their supervisors. Ducking for a look, I saw Storm giving the typhlosion "thumbs up", two claws touching in an OK sign, before losing sight of him through the doorway. It looked so easy. Everything was going according to plan, and I returned back to my charges, spending several minutes discussing our current strategy with them.

Then the shit hit the fan.

Shots were fired, and we heard screams and yells from inside the building.

Before the backup team could scramble, a massive concussion threw us to the ground. Flying debris slammed its way through the EP personnel, dropping some of the Rangers with horrific injuries. The wind tore at our faces, and shards of glass shredded exposed flesh. Protected as we were by the adjoining building, while my team and I were knocked to the dirt, we sustained no serious injuries, and simply waited with our hands covering our faces until the whirlwind subsided. With my ears still ringing, I peered around the corner towards the warehouse, where a picture of hell awaited me.

Amongst the carnage of twisted metal and flaming debris, the shattered remains of the warehouse sat crumbling into oblivion.

I got up and ran towards the building, ignoring the radiant heat from the burning wreckage that began scalding my exposed skin. Storm was in there! I had to get him out!

Rough hands suddenly pulled at me, preventing me diving into the devastation after him. While part of me realised how futile my actions were, I couldn't seem to gather enough coherent thought together enough to stop. Instead, I resisted them, screaming Storm's name and struggling against the grasping arms frantically, until someone punched me hard in the face, causing me to black out.

When next I regained consciousness, I was lying under white sheets, in a Ranger hospital, aching and sore all over. My hands and legs were heavily bandaged, and I had a dressing across one eye. I felt like shit.

For a few moments, I struggled with the memory of where I was, and how I had gotten there. Then I started screaming, hysterically thrashing at the restraints on my wrist, and tearing at the IV tubes stuck in me. Screaming until they held me down and I was heavily sedated, again losing consciousness.

But as my sight dimmed, with the anxious faces of the nursing staff above me, one final thought tore at me.

I was alone. Storm was gone, and I was alone.

Continued in Chapter 9: Judgement Day.