Raining Blood

[Proto Man]

It was a warm day off the isle of Isla Nublar.

On a small island about a mile from Nublar, a yacht bobbed up and down in the afternoon waves. From the anchored boat, a trail of blood stretched about a quarter mile inland to the center of the island, where about a dozen men in Imperial Naval uniforms were digging down into the white sand. From their clear progress, it was obvious that they had been working through most of the day, and their efforts had led to a five-foot deep trench along the center of the island.

Up above the trench, a collection of individuals were also working around the island, but only one of them was glaring down at the sweating, gasping seaman. At about four and a half feet, he would have only towered over the most average-sized human preteens. The reptile’s blue skin looked almost glossy as the full sun of the ocean verse bore down upon it, but if he felt any discomfort, it wasn’t apparent. His midsection was encased in a thick brown shell, and his hands and toes ended with hooked claws that were stained permanently by years of blood, much like the teeth of a life-long coffee drinker.

On the back of his shell rested two assault rifles, both equipped with bayonets and grenade launchers. Around his waist was a heavy belt decorated with grenades and other assorted devices. Atop of the turtle’s head, he wore a small camouflage helmet that had been modified to allow his somewhat fluffy ears to poke out to mitigate discomfort. At the end of the reptile’s mouth was a fat cigar that glowed red.

“Warlord.” The raspy voice came from behind Wartortle, who glanced away from the seaman to see his Head Researcher standing just a few paces behind him. A Pikachu by birth, the little mouse wore a tiny white lab coat and had a habit for chain-smoking cigarettes. Even now, one of the little white stick dangled from the corner of his tiny mouth as he spoke. “We’re picking up Imperial chatter in the area. I think it’s about time for us to move on… unless you think the boat can survive another mismatched engagement.”

Wartortle sneered, revealing a mouthful of jagged teeth. The Mouse Pokémon was correct—their boat had suffered more than its fair share of blows in their most recent scuffle with an Imperial Naval detachment. As they were far removed from the nearest Liberation Front safety house, the reptile had no desire to swim the distance.

“I suppose you’re right… ready the boat, Doctor.”

“Yeap,” Pikachu said as he snapped off a lazy salute. As someone who existed outside the military hierarchy, he wasn’t required to do so, but that didn’t stop him from doing so lackadaisically. If he’d been anyone else, Wartortle would have punched his teeth in, but the Mouse Pokémon had been with him since nearly the start, back in the days before the Omniverse. After taking a long drag from his cigarette, Pikachu flicked it down into the trench and walked back toward the boat and the collection of workers trying to ensure it was sea-worthy.

“Good job down there, homo sapiens,” Wartortle shouted, causing many of the chained-together seaman to turn their weary eyes up toward the turtle. “Real high-quality grave.”

With that, the Warlord opened fire with both of his machine guns, strafing the length of the trench several times over with two streams of automatic fire. Although weary from starvation, dehydration, and exhaustion, many of the men still managed to pull together enough energy to try and drag themselves up the walls of the trench, but they were quickly cut down.

Letting off on the triggers, Wartortle sneered through the smoke wafting up from the barrels of his guns. “Filth,” he muttered as he holstered the rifles and started back toward the boat, leaving behind the narrow trench lined with the broken bodies of the Imperial seamen.