The result of me getting pretty impatient for StarCraft 2. So I started this cross-over fic which features elements from both StarCraft and Pokémon. It helps to know a little about the game itself, but just know, it takes place in the far future, after the events of the Brood War.
PG 13 for violence and mild profanities. Nothing too major. :P
I looked at them as I was dressed and equipped in the usual Terran Marine armor, with the black colored plating to indicate our affiliation with the Omega Squadron, once part of the Terran Confederacy four years ago before it was wasted. However, Lieutenant Commander Gregory Reikson was still the commanding officer, and even though now we were part of the Terran Dominion, things were about to change around here. But for now, we needed to get to work.
All thirty of them. I knew what these Freshbloods saw, I saw it in the mirror a million times. Dressed in full plated, hulking power armor with the Gauss Rifle at my side. Enough to make even the toughest of football players piss in their pants. All of them were convicts, some lifers, others of deadbeat thugs, freaks, and punks that were too good for use to be sticking in jail. I was here to introduce them to training so they could become just as much of a badass bastard as myself, and instead use their thug mentalities to be of some use to us. And then they saw me, Major Max Cameron of the Terran Marines. They didn’t know whether to sit there and gawk or just piss themselves. Cons… I figured were getting dumber by the dozen.
Civilian clothes, the usual mess from the suburban and urban wastes of whatever spawn they wriggled out of. They looked around the metal barracks like they never knew what a building looked like before, some with their teeth baring, displaying the worst feral animals the next generation of humanity had to offer. But I knew, this sure wasn’t any kiddie amusement ride for their own misguided entertainment. This was the real deal, the real cut and dry, you fight like a badass or you end up face down in a pile of your own vitals. I knew what the hell was happening out there, but most of these withering maggots didn’t have the balls to contemplate in their miniature brains what we’ve had to deal with for the past three years.
Standing besides me was Sergeant Nathan Walker, also dressed and equipped in the black-plated power armor. Scarred face, plenty of impatient attitude, and loved to bear his teeth like some pissed off, rabid animal. He hadn’t been here as long as I had, but he knew what he was dealing with. This was his seventh group of new recruits by now, this was becoming a clockwork operation for him. But, he always liked the way I introduced Freshbloods to the Marines division. I told him this was the last time I was doing it for him. Every time after this, he was going to owe me six pack at the end of the day.
“Alright, listen up.” I told the group of them, standing before all thirty of these greasy wetbacks, “My name’s Major Max Cameron, and there here is Sergeant Nathan Walker. He’s going to be in charge of turning you redneck, backwards maggots into capable warriors. You will learn to train, breathe, sleep, eat, and fight like a Terran Marine. Some of you are probably thinking you’re an elite pack of commies for passing the 75% attrition rate. It doesn’t mean jack to me or to Sergeant Walker, that is our means of separating the possible dogs of war from the worthless rats of humanity’s pestilence. You will either learn to bend, or you will break.”
More stares. Half of them didn’t know what to think about what I was saying, the other half was probably wondering when I’d shut up, move aside, and let them see the Disneyland roller coaster they were probably expecting behind these metal doors like this was some joke of an amusement park. I’ve seen new recruits not take me seriously. In a week, they become so silent that you’d think their voice box was ripped right out of their throats. They were nothing more than thugs at the moment, capable of harsh crime, but not having the brains to use it effectively for Omega Squad, or otherwise known as the Death’s Head Legion.
“You were selected for your athletic ability, as well as your experience handling Pokémon.” Sergeant Walker told them, “I’ll tell you right now, 95% of those rejected during the Terran EMAT exam are people who were caught up so much in training their Pokémon that they totally forgot to train themselves, and can’t even play a simple game of dodge ball without crying for the misguided woman that brought them screaming
into this world. I will tell you right now, you will need both your own ability and your Pokémon if you intend on making it out of this war alive. Your Pokémon will be slaughter for the Zerg if you don’t support them, and so will you without support of your own. I can not tell you how many times Privates end up in the infirmary either dead or in pieces because they didn’t think about what the hell they were doing before they actually did it.”
I loved the faces on these hideous freaks of nature. Some of them were confused, the others were looking confident that they could handle anything. I swore, they were not going to be the same people a month from now. A quarter of them wouldn’t even be here, and the others would somewhere out there in the wastes, trying to allocate god-knows-what for resources.
“You will all be given a basic firearm and a suit of armor for training.” Walker continued, ignoring their faces, “If you break your weapon, you will spend a week in the box. If you break your armor, you will spend a week in the box. If you lose
either of them, I’ll kill you myself. You will wake every morning at 4 AM, ready and prepared to run, fight, and curse your ass off. This ain’t Boys or Girls Scouts where you hope to earn Mightyena or Ursaring badges. This ain’t Excitement Park where you hope to trade in four hundred tickets for a Charmander plush doll that some factory using child labor managed to crap out of their pants. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the real deal, and if you don’t believe me now, you can bet your ass you will believe me in a week from now.”
The large, metal doors to the outside had opened with a heavy metallic clang, releasing a lot of steam and heat into the area when the pressure was disengaged. The vault doors slowly moved aside, revealing the large training yard where they would soon begin hating themselves for being here. Many of them turned around, and prepared to underestimate the boot camp we had here.
“Oh, and ladies….” Walker told the group, just before they looked behind to see him again, “Welcome to the Terran Marines.”
And that concluded yet another inauguration. I watched them head out there, totally unaware of what they were going to face in the months to come. In a month from now, they would be on the fields, screaming and firing their Gauss Rifles at the Zerg like a red-hot cactus rocketed off right up their asses. Thankfully, I was done with training Freshbloods. This was a Sergeant’s job, and thankfully, I was past that haemoid in life.
Walker followed them outside, while I just looked at the surrounding Ramsaras Colony from the barracks. Plenty of metallic structures, surrounded by the occasional missile defense turret, all before me on the urban wastelands of the planet Ramsaras. This abandoned city of Benadire was doing well as an outpost, and the buildings and walls of the city were serving nicely for garrison and defense. Meanwhile, outside of this rotten hole of human civilization was one long plain of nothing but rocks, holes, pits, craters, and plenty of nature’s compost heap. Somewhere out there was the Zerg hive, and the last time we tried to get a report on it, we got the privilege of what it’s like to hear a scout get his skull and jaw mashed together before decapitation.
Our orders were simple. Harvest as much minerals and Vespene Gas until everything was depleted and we could blow this festering hellhole. We managed to tap into 55% of the last living rot that was still here, slowly pecking away at the large and massive amount of resources that were still here. What we were doing was very simple. Getting as much as we could for the Terran Dominion before the Zerg could get their slimy hands on it.
Meanwhile, us, as well as everything else here was just meant for us to survive long enough for us to extract everything. Several of the Terran buildings were capable of lifting off the ground and would be taken to the new colony once this was done. Those that couldn’t would be stuck here, and left for dead after being stripped of everything they needed.
As for me, I reported directly to Lieutenant Commander Gregory Reikson himself. Where he was now, I didn’t know, he sure as hell wasn’t here and I couldn’t blame him. This place didn’t interest him, it was just a cash cow on life support. And we were the plug, ready to pull out when this place didn’t matter any more.
As I stepped my way out of the barracks, I saw the SCVs were working alongside several fire Pokémon to construct the armory. It was one of those things that would be needed here, and then later abandoned. Considering the cost that was going into it and the little we were actually going to be using it, I didn’t think the construction of the metallic mess was even worth it, but it wasn’t my call. Hopefully, we wouldn’t need it and we could get out of here without it.
The ComSat report indicated that the Zerg presence in the north was very concentrated. That was it. It was the only thing we could use that wasn’t a scout. The Marines on lookout hadn’t spotted anything yet, but they would give the call when a possible attack was happening.
I was just hoping we were off of this ticking time bomb when it all blew up…