Nagoya’s warrior finally aimed true and singed the tip of Apollyon’s right wing. The soaring angel shrieked and broke into a barrel roll reminiscent of the one it performed in the Seafoam Islands. Charmeleon assumed a victorious stance, but my Articuno wasn’t finished. About four feet from the rain-soaked ground, it fully extended its wings and began to glide at an astonishing velocity. Charmeleon stared in disbelief as Apollyon hurtled toward it, the crystals on its head shining brightly. With the distance between the two Pokemon dwindling, shimmering blue energy coursed through the air in front of Apollyon. Tiny particles of ice were left suspended in its wake. The bright waves gathered in a brilliant halo, then erupted in a silky beam of unbelievable cold. The blast caught Charmeleon by surprise, only leaving it time to unleash an uncontrolled flash of flame before the ice struck. The last attack of Nagoya’s Pokemon melted the frozen rain at the head of the Ice Beam, but the water still struck it with full force. The rest of the beam finished the job—Charmeleon was completely encased in a frigid, suffocating tomb. Its foe’s will to fight extinguished, Apollyon was declared the victor. The referee, in a shielded capsule along the sidelines, raised a red flag in his left hand. “Stryker wins the point!” he lauded. Jack and Heather shouted in triumph, but Nagoya was indifferent. He stood still, apparently contemplating his next move. I spoke softly into my microphone and congratulated Apollyon.

PRI special agent John Morton stealthily slipped out of the shadows cast by a concrete entrance to the stands. He was about ten rows from the floor, surrounded by masses of enthralled, cheering people. The audience was captivated by the epic clash of fire and ice in the arena, so he went unnoticed. Morton stood still, a lone pillar jutting into a sea of roiling humanity. A smirk crept across his face as he reached up and slowly removed his opaque sunglasses. It’s too damn dark with all this rain, he thought. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and took a deep breath as he watched the fight. Little bastard. he cursed. Morton was one of the agents assigned to the task of recovering the ‘dropped ball,’ namely Articuno. ‘A simple sting’? Liars. How hard is it to reclaim something, sensitive weapon or not, from the clumsy hands of some punk kid? Morton had been with the PRI division of the CIA for twelve years. He was a gifted soldier in his late thirties.

The agent tapped his tiny earpiece, activating it. He wore a plastic tarp over his black uniform. ‘PRI’ was stenciled in large, white letters on the back of his Ranger tactical vest. A 9mm was strapped behind his back, easily within reach but concealed from the crowd. A curved, wicked knife rested between his combat boots and dark pants. Agent Morton returned to scratching his chin as he began speaking into a hidden microphone.

“Blue Wolf, do you copy?” Blue Wolf was the other PRI agent working with him on the operation.
“I copy,” replied a brisk, annoyed voice. “Request permission to execute.”
“Denied, Wolf,” Morton said. “Just wait.”
“I grow impatient,” rasped the man on the line.
Well to hell with you too, Morton thought. We can’t botch this. The agent crouched down in the aisle. Soon enough.

A fleeting, sharp pain stung me in my left shoulder. Wincing, I rubbed my hand across the long scar beneath my shirt. At times the wound would hurt when something was wrong…it was a kind of warning, so to speak. I looked around the stadium through pained eyes, scanning the crowd for signs of danger. Nothing stood out—everything seemed okay. That’s odd…danger from the stands is a near impossibility because of the shields. Can’t be a sniper. Hmm…no government forces were storming the building…always a good sign. I warily returned my concentration to the battle, but my mind wandered back to how I got the scar… and one of my Pokemon.

Page Five
Page Five

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