Heyyo! For those of you who know the name of this story, this is the rewrite. For all those new, welcome!
This is a story of adventure, action, and- well really it's a story about a soldier, and his therapy fox, but there's plenty of cool stuff as well!
This story will contain violence, cruelty, terrorism, war, frequent cursing, hood rapping, realistic Pokémon, Pokémon hunting, and the ingredients to a pipe bomb. Reader discretion is advised.
I own nothing but the story concept and the OCs within.
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Holloway firmly pressed down on the soldier's stomach, trying to stem the blood. He glanced down, flinched at what he saw, then slowly let his hands off the soldier's stomach, shaking his head at a grim faced, shell-shocked sergeant looking on.
Holloway looked down, closed the soldier's eyes with two bloodied gloves, then plucked two magazines from the dead soldier's vest. With his left hand, he pulled out two of his own empty ones, then slotted the new ones in. Cynically, he remarked to himself that he'd do a better job with the rounds than the fallen soldier would.
He regretted thinking that instantaneously.
Picking up his rifle, he stood straight and sprinted out a doorway into a street. He covered the street rapidly, moving between cars and burnt carcasses that were once US military vehicles. He stopped behind a mostly intact but immobilized M2 Bradley, peeking out behind it at another group of soldiers. His radio barked with commands for him, and the field medic responded with the affirmative, sprinting toward a building to his left.
The sounds of warfare quieted as he descended stairs rapidly from a door in the side of that building, the clanking of his boots sounding out around him. Two soldiers waved him forward and pointed to a slumped woman cradling her rifle to her chest.
These were not soldiers? He glanced around at their black garb, then down the hallway they were firing at previously. Dead enemy soldiers littered the area, a mixture of Israeli and Russian garb.
Shaking his head clear, he went to work on the operative in front of him, securing a tourniquet around her thigh. He snipped away the canvas that made up her pants, and viewed the bullet wound. No exit. Better off calling for medevac and stemming the blood loss. He didn't have the supplies to properly treat her.
He relayed that, pressing down on her and trying to stem the bleeding. There was a lot of blood, pouring over his fingers and seeping into his gloves. An artery was hit. He glanced up at her, seeing the fear in her eyes, and he smiled. He'd do what he could.
Something in his eyes must have reassured her, perhaps something about his smile. She nodded slowly, her expression easing. And so he went and made her yell in pain as he stuffed gauze into her wound and pressed tightly down. He barked orders to get a helicopter to here faster, and kept pressure on the wound.
Whatever leader these Operatives had yelled at him from down the hallway. More wounded? He yelled a response then nodded to another Operative next to him, telling him to keep pressure and wait for the medevac.
Holloway picked up his rifle as he got up, then sprinted down the hallway. He turned the door with his rifle at the ready.
He came upon two dead Operatives and five dead enemy soldiers. The wounded he had been meant to secure had been discarded to the right of the room, laying in a pile of his own blood. In front of them was a computer with a red screen. It was mounted to what looked like a thousand pound bomb, with frames around it. His heart froze when he saw the multitude of radioactive symbols. He understood why the wounded soldier had been discarded.
He didn't hear the Operatives around him yelling. Holloway didn't really comprehend it. It felt as if he was swimming, even now. Belatedly, he noticed a countdown in a corner. An Operative screamed back down the hallway, and he saw three sprinting away as if they'd escape the radius.
His rifle was gripped tighter in his hands. He would not die without it. He walked forward, feeling as if he was in a trance, as if he wasn't in control of his body. He stepped up to it, and laid a hand softly on the screen.
Ten seconds.
He remembered his mother. How he didn't like her. The things he regretted that he couldn't tell her.
He remembered his father. The way he admired him, the way he hung off of every word. An infinite source of wisdom, his best friend.
He remembered his younger brother. He regretted the way he treated him. He regretted their conflicts, the arguments, the hatred. All he wanted now was to cradle his brother to his chest and apologize.
He remembered his two little sisters. How they will grow up on a molten planet, how they will be raised by a mother who didn't truly care for them. How they will lose their oldest brother.
Tears slipped down his dirty and bloodied face. He removed his hand from the screen, and held the rifle firmly. He closed his eyes, letting out one last breath.
His world erupted in bright white light despite his eyes being closed. In a split second, the room, him, the two Operatives and five enemy soldiers who died, and everyone around in a five-mile radius ceased to exist on an atomic level.
The next five hundred miles faced a nuclear holocaust, and the next three thousand felt irradiated winds.
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Holloway's body hurt. He felt stiff, and his muscles burned. His skin felt too tight around him. His mouth felt dry, and his face felt as if sand was stuck to it.
He stirred, feeling sand shift beneath his fingers. He probably felt sand due to the fact he was laying on sand. He spat some out, wiping his tongue over the roof of his mouth.
Sounds came to him then, odd screams above him that sounded like seagulls but not quite. "Weeen," they seemed to say, or "geee." He opened his eyes after lifting his head, taking note of the brown color of the sand.
He slowly got up, noticing he was in his uniform as if nothing had happened. He glanced to his left, seeing that he was on a beach. It seemed to steep up into a tropical jungle. He belatedly remembered a similar scene in Ark Survival Evolved, when you first spawned in.
He laughed derisively to himself as he slowly stood, grabbing his rifle that was discarded to his right in the process. His neck and wrists hurt, and one glance at the back of his wrist where his sleeve didn't quite meet the glove showed that he was sunburnt. That'd do it.
How long was he lying there?
After coming to his feet, he flexed his fingers and groaned. His helmet felt heavy on his head, and he adjusted it belatedly while undoing the chin strap that irritated his skin. He noticed the lack of a backpack or his medical satchel.
He busied himself by staring out over the sea, then looking up at the birds. They didn't look like any seagulls to him. He flexed his fingers around the pistol grip of his rifle, concerned for his location.
Was…was this divine interference? He should be dead. His head swiveled to look along the beach, and he let out a slow breath.
First order of business was securing water. Despite there being a fucking ocean to his left, he wasn't able to drink that without processing it. He didn't have a pot to boil it and it held too much salt. And so he turned his gaze towards the jungle.
Calling it a jungle would be a bit of an overstatement. It wasn't nearly as thick as you'd think, he was able to see around fifty meters into it through the trees before it got too covered. There was a lot of roots and rocks, though, that would make walking a pain in the ass.
Holloway felt lost. This wasn't going to go well for him if he didn't rapidly find water and shelter, let alone food. His fingers flexed around his rifle again, a nervous tick. Licking his dry lips, he'd look right and decide to walk down the beach towards the rock cropping he could see twenty meters away.
His boots sunk repeatedly in the sand, and he was grateful for their relative quality. While they were dirty, they weren't old, and were of military quality. Meaning cheap, decent enough, and made for warfare and rough grounds. They'd do here.
He'd check his ammo situation while he was at it, shifting his rifle so he could stare at the right of the receiver. He detached the magazine, then braced the gun against his shoulder. He slowly pulled the charging handle back, his left hand coming down and under to grab at the bullet sticking out. He let the rack slide forward, then shifted his rifle to where the barrel is held between his left arm and his side.
Holloway glanced at the magazine, saw through the small visor that he couldn't see any rounds, and deduced that the magazine had less than ten rounds left in it. He slotted the bullet in his hand into the magazine, then slotted that mag into an empty spot on his vest.
Pulling a fresh mag from his vest, coincidentally one from the fallen soldier, he grabbed his rifle back then loaded it. Racking a round into the chamber, he double checked visually that the rifle was on safe.
He went about visually looking at the magazines, getting a rough idea without pulling out all the bullets and counting them individually. One more fresh one, one partial, two empty. He was missing another magazine entirely for the six count pack.
Reaching his left hand up, he flipped down the straps. He then noticed he reached the rock face.
Belatedly noticing his headache, he sighed to himself and walked forward into the jungle, walking along the stone that towered up into what looked like half a mountain.
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He was maybe five hundred meters in. His hope was to find some sort of stream leading from the cliff face, or a cave, or some sort of natural concave formation that'd let him set up shelter. Something ahead looked promising in that manner, but the smells of the jungle masked any of a river if one was nearby.
Still, they were sweet scents. Natural. He's used to sand, dirt, more sand, blood, ash, and gunpowder for smells and textures. Afghanistan was a horrible place to fight in, let alone try to invade Russia from.
"PII!"
His right shoulder was jerked roughly back. He dove behind a tree, landing roughly on his stomach before pushing up against it with his legs.
Breathing heavily, Holloway checked his shoulder to see that the only damage done was the fraying of some fibers.
He jerked his head around the tree for just a moment, seeing nothing, and leaned back just in time to see a small fireball fly past where his head was and impact the dirt ahead.
Holloway blinked. That was like an actual miniature fireball. Like, it was a ball, made of fire, flung like a projectile. What weapon did that?
Holloway scrambled to his feet, shying away from his left. But from behind the tree, he wasn't shot at again. Chancing something, he'd slowly peek his eye around the tree towards whatever location he was fired from.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
He managed to sight in a small animal of some sort before it spit out a fucking fireball at him, and he jerked back behind the tree trunk.
His fingers flexed around his rifle. He shouldered it, then rapidly sprung out of cover, aiming the rifle in the direction of the animal. He fired two shots.
Both missed, the animal somehow ducking right before he fired. It yelped and scrambled to the right, into the crevasse that he saw earlier. He kept his rifle levied towards the direction it came from, glaring from behind the iron sights of his rifle.
His breath was rapid and his heart was hammering in his chest. He saw no sight of the animal that spat fireballs what the fuck and so he jerked his head around to view his surroundings.
The forest was quiet. Eerily so. Fingers flexed around his pistol grip.
He jerked his vision back to the crevasse, before suddenly moving his left hand from the gun up to his chin to fasten the chin strap of his helmet tight.
Once his hand gripped the handguard once more, he creeped forward slowly, right foot smoothly stepping forward while his profile and rifle remained aimed where the animal went.
He glanced at the bullet holes embedded in the rock, wincing internally as he knew those were two fewer rounds in a situation where he didn't know if he could get more.
Fingers flexing around his rifle, he stared into the crevasse, sliding towards the edge of the entrance as if he would stack against a door.
Stopping there, stacked up against a rock, he idly remarked to himself in his head that he was about to breach and clear a cave where a tiny animal was a threat.
Nevermind that it spit fireballs!
Two heartbeats, three, and then he swung around rapidly with his rifle aimed forwards. It quickly found the animal, which yelped and tried to push itself closer into a corner than it already was.
Its…six tails? Were raised high and its fur was fluffed like a cat's would be. Its claws were bared and so were its teeth, but its eyes were afraid. It was scared to death.
And so they remained for a moment, rifle poised to take the life of a tiny creature. Sighing, he slowly lowered it, before fully pressing it against his chest. Keeping his eyes on the animal, he nodded slowly and took a step back.
"Well, fuck."
Eyes flickered over the crevasse. It was small, wider near the bottom than the top. Vines crawled over the walls, leaves spread over the rock like a lover's hand.
He looked back at the animal, trying to remember if it seemed familiar. If he stepped into a realm he recognized. He didn't.
"This…this is your home?"
The question was mostly rhetorical. Fingers flexing around his rifle, he was startled to see the animal nod sharply.
Silence reigned for a good five seconds as he stared at it. He opened his mouth to speak, but his mouth felt dry. He licked his lips before trying again.
"You can understand me? Like, speech?"
Another nod. The tails lowered a tiny bit, but it was still pressed up against the wall. He looked back behind him, at the jungle, then took a shaky breath.
"I'm going to..sit down. Here."
And so he slowly made to sit, releasing his grip on the handguard of his rifle and using that left hand to steady himself on the wall as he slowly lowered himself.
Fully sat, knees propped up and back leaning against the wall, he felt the weariness he should. He was tired, physically and mentally. War takes its toll on everybody, and when was the last time he's gotten some sleep?
He glanced over to the animal, then slowly set his rifle to his right. In sight, not in use. He watched as it seemed to sit on its haunches, still pressed against the corner.
"I feel you, man. I'm sorry for shooting at you, but to be fair, you did shoot first."
It didn't give any visible reaction to that, so he sighed to himself then looked out to his left- towards the jungle. He watched as the sun creeped lower in the sky. Blue trickled through what the giant leaves and trunks didn't cover. There wasn't a cloud in sight.
Was he on some kind of undiscovered tropical island? Or maybe a different dimension? He still didn't have an explanation for an animal that threw fireballs.
Holloway went about undoing his glove straps and setting the blood soaked things on his lap. He looked at the animal, studying its features in the shade toward that end of the crevasse.
It seemed like a small six tailed fox. Its snout seemed sharper than any fox, and its eyes..they were expressive. Much more than any animal he's ever seen.
The fact it understood him was fundamentally groundbreaking. This confirmed the existence of alien life- assuming he wasn't on Earth anymore.
Looking back to his left and gazing over the green, he set his gloves in his lap then reached up and undid his chin strap, pulling the helmet off of his head. Bringing it down, he flipped it around, hearing the soft clunks it made along with the rustling of Kevlar fiber. He brushed some dust off with his thumb.
He thought back about Earth. Staring at his helmet, he thought about the military. The lifestyle he held, because the world went to shit and governments wanted to war. Russia grew cocky, Israel was corrupted, Afghanistan broke apart into tribalism and even Turkey marched off into war.
Australia, Canada, the United Kingdoms, the US, Germany, Spain, and France- against everyone fucking else. It was bloody. Nuclear armaments were regulated to known locations of isolated army bases.
That didn't excuse their use. And then he stumbled upon that bomb.
Were they lying in wait? Wishing for US forces to invade the city and then blow it to hell? What was the point?
Holloway felt buzzing in his mind. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, before looking up and out to the green and studying the landscape.
What about his family? He hadn't heard from his mother or brother or little sisters, but he still missed them. He hoped they were safe. What of his father? He hoped it would be easy to grieve.
A lead weight settled on his heart. He knew about survivor's guilt, and this wasn't quite what he felt. What about those left behind, though? What will his dad do? What about the world?
That was a straw that would break the camel's back, for those governments. He had family back in Earth, he didn't want to see it annihilated. All he knew, gone. How was he supposed to survive, then? To move on?
Why the hell was he not taken by that nuke?
"Vullll…?"
Holloway jerked his head to the right, seeing the small fox hesitating to approach- but it was a lot closer. Nearly in arm's length. It peered up at him, seeming to hold sadness in its eyes. It flinched at Holloway's rapid movements, but didn't turn away. He shook his head, the buzzing not going away.
"Well hi, there. Can I help you?"
He didn't stand, but he did look at its body language. He didn't mean to imply he was trapping it in, and so didn't extend his legs against the far wall, keeping them crossed beneath him.
In response, the fox seemed to tilt its head and step towards him. Holloway stilled. He watched as it continued to do so slowly, and saw it hesitate at the blood it saw on him.
He watched its eyes trail over his pants, over his vest, straying to his eyes and his dirty face. He gave it a tentative smile.
It looked down and left at the rifle next to it, then looked to where he had shot at it from.
And then it stepped forward and pressed itself against Holloway's leg, before lying down next to him. It rested its head on its paws, facing away.
Holloway stared down in disbelief, before reaching a dirty, but not bloody ungloved hand down to rest on its stomach. It flinched in response, and looked at his hand instantaneously, and it got very still.
So, he slowly moved his hand up and down, giving the sort of side rubs a cat would like. The buzzing in his head felt worse, and he shook it. Was he concussed?
The fox seemed to slowly relax as Holloway continued to pet it. The smile on his face grew.
The fox laid its head back down onto its paws, and eventually closed its eyes. When Holloway moved his hand up to rub at its scruff, it started purring softly, a curious sound made by a fox.
He took the time to examine it more closely. A soft tan coloring, with paws that were a bit darker. Its tails were the same tan, with streaks of darker brown flowing from them into its main body, before fading out. Its snout was brown, its nose was black, and the eyes were brown. There were white tufts of hair in the ears.
Holloway slowly relaxed, feeling the fatigue of the last couple days infuse into his body. He didn't want to disturb the fox, who seemed to enjoy the pets greatly, so he didn't take off his plate carrier or magazine satchel in order to get more comfortable.
A nap seemed to be in order, though, and he fell asleep with thoughts of home, family, and what it would've been like with an alien fox capable of shooting fireballs as a pet when he was a kid.
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He awoke to soreness in his legs and back. He glanced out, noticing that the sun dipped just a little bit. An hour, maybe? Two?
He looked down, seeing the fox splayed out on its side with its head resting against one paw now. His hand was snuggled into the underside of its front legs, resting over its chest.
He felt it breath slowly, its heartbeat swifter than his but at a sedate pace. He ran his thumb back and forth, marveling at the soft fur. It was dirty though, and some areas were matted down.
It was really warm though. Like a heating pad. It did spit fireballs, so maybe inside its chest or lungs there were pouches that superheated air? Was that why it was warmer than any animal back on earth?
The pain of sitting in the position he was got to him, and so he removed his hand. Instantly, it seemed to awake.
He got up slowly, stretching and idly noticing the buzz in his head got stronger again. His helmet tumbled to his left before he could catch it, and his gloves fell down.
He twisted left, then right, cracking his back. Reaching down, he grabbed those gloves and set the helmet up properly.
The fox seemed to get up and stretch like a cat would, before peering at him and what he was doing. Sitting on its haunches, it watched warily.
Holloway decided not to take off his armor, instead looking at the fox. Humming to himself, he decided to go out on a limb.
"Do you know where a stream is? Or a river? Clean?"
It seemed to think for a moment before nodding, actually fucking nodding, and padded over to the entrance. It looked back at him, and he shook himself out of his stupor before placing his gloves in a pocket.
He picked up the helmet, loosely put it on his head, and picked up his rifle. He then walked after it, nodding at it while adjusting the chin strap on his helm.
He kept the rifle at the ready but relaxed, placed against his chest with the barrel pointing down. The fox looked at him with a little fear, and the buzzing in his head spiked. It then seemed to make up its mind then start walking to the right- further along the rock face.
The stream was a small thing, barely being deep enough to kneel in. What was important was that it was crystal clear, coming from the rock face above, and was swiftly moving along.
As clean as water could be in the wild, he supposed. He would smile at the fox while it padded forward to take drinks. Holloway knelt a small bit of ways downstream from it.
He dunked his gloves under first, running water through it and watching as crusted blood and dirt flaked off and drifted downstream. The bulky stuff, mostly, with the stained on blood remaining. It'd take a lot to get it out.
His helmet followed once he set those aside to dry. Once that was rinsed off, he took off his magazine satchel and set that to the side. His plate carrier came off as well, and set beside that.
Groaning and stretching now that he wasn't bogged down, he unbuttoned his fatigue jacket, and pulled it off, before kneeling again.
He rinsed and rubbed at the fabric thoroughly, his eyes straying upwards, and he kept his head on a swivel. But the fox seemed chilled out, not worried about any potential threats. He supposed he shouldn't be either.
He draped the jacket over a tree limb after standing, then pulled his shirt off. Left nude from the waist up, after rinsing the shirt of his sweat, he'd drape that tan piece over a branch.
He then knelt at the river bed, leaning down to splash water over his face. He ran hands through his hair, then cupped water repeatedly to rinse it out. It felt cold, but divine.
He shook his hair free after that, already used to not being able to brush it even if he wanted to. He didn't take off his pants, or belt, but did then sit down to take off his boots and socks.
Flexing his toes once they were free, he rolled up his pant legs and secured them with his boot bands. His boots he didn't get wet, but he thoroughly drenched his socks.
Standing, his toes sunk into dirt and mud, and he wriggled them a bit to get feeling into them. He was now in a survivalist setting- it was warm enough to go barefoot and sockless.
It wasn't far from the crevasse, the stream. And so he gathered up all but his helmet and boots, but paused before he went.
"I'm going to put these near the cave and come right back, okay?"
He nodded towards the fox, but didn't wait for a response. He wanted to show it that he was beginning to trust it, enough to let it know what he was doing.
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An hour later Holloway would be kneeling near the mouth of the cave, a small campfire built. Well, there were some stones surrounding a little teepee of sticks, so it was generous to call it a fireplace, but even smolders and embers would provide warmth during the night.
The fox laid nearby, watching curiously. It had led him to a nearby bush with edible berries that tasted tart and dry. They were large though, and so he ate his fill with only four or five. The fox ate six.
No, he didn't know where it put it all away.
Holloway was striking the back of his knife against a flat stone, sparks flying onto the campfire but not catching. Frowning to himself, he adjusted some leaves, before getting closer and striking into them.
After a moment, a small trickle of flame came into existence, which spread slowly to the surrounding leaves. Smiling, he sat down and crossed his legs, leaning forward and making sure the fire goes smoothly.
After around seven minutes, he had a small campfire, and then he added a couple of the heavier sticks to it. Once those caught on fire, they'd last for a while.
Eventually, he laid down on the cold stone, shivering slightly. He curled up against a wall, his rifle pressed up against it in front of his head, to the right.
After a moment, the fox got up and padded over. It rubbed against his side, and laid down against him. Holloway smiled and rubbed the fox's neck fur, admiring the soft texture of its fur against his chest.
Earlier, he had taken out the plates of his plate carrier and is now using the vest as a pillow, a dried out shirt on top to minimize the rough texture.
It was going to be a rough night, and he'd definitely feel it in the morning. Watching the fire, however, he still drifted asleep thinking of melancholic thoughts and wondering if divine intervention put him here.
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And there she is, folks! If you liked it, let me know. If you didn't like it, let me know.
I wish to thank Fuggman and his story Borne of Caution, and all the people in his Discord channel for inspiring this story.
For clarification, for all intents and purposes, Pokémon doesn't exist in Holloway's universe. Make up whatever excuse you'd like- my favorite is that Nintendogs beat Pokémon out when the franchise was proposed to Nintendo. The lack of Pokémon is of course why WW3 happened. :D
Discord is as such:
dTWc6QFQfm