FLOOD [Pokémon]

Chapter 15: Second Base

DARWIN

Monday, March 19, 2018

"ATTENNNNN-SHUN! Straighten up, punks!"

The worst thing about Rustboro Trainer High's Battle Branch is probably the drill sergeants. One in particular.

Sergeant Marshall — who was apparently so married to his rank that he had refused to drop it, even after mustering out of the Hoenn Navy — marched up the line of my classmates, his steel-toed boots hitting the asphalt track like he wanted to leave behind craters. He probably would've liked it if he did — anything to make us feel smaller and him larger than life, despite being only 5'8".

I felt small enough already today, mostly because half my body weight was sweating out onto the track. Friday's rain had hammered hard through the weekend and then tapered off Sunday night, leaving Monday morning sunny, hot, and worst of all, humid, enough to boil my blood. What's worse, there was no wind, leaving everything still and dripping wet: the athletic field sported several huge standing puddles of water that made the air smell like a stagnate bog, and hordes of bug-types were buzzing around, looking for somewhere to land. It was completely disgusting. Class hadn't even started yet, and already the pits of my Operational Dress Uniform were soaked with sweat. Ditto for my scalp — the moisture had transformed my hair into an itchy mess of gray tangles, which I knew was not going to go unnoticed by Marshall.

And what do you know, I was right — as he stomped down the line, he came to a halt in front of me, squinting derisively. "Blakesley!" he shouted in my face. "What did I tell you about bringing that unkempt tumbleweed to class? It's an affront to my eyes. Get it out of my sight!"

I should've been used to getting yelled at, considering the military-school-style of the Battle Branch, but I still found myself seizing up. "Uh—"

"What was that? I can't hear you, recruit!"

"Yes sir!" My voice came out surprised and high, and cracked in the middle — humiliated, I ducked my head as he huffed and continued down the line, knowing that some of my classmates, despite their expressionless faces, were probably sniggering on the inside. Overbearing prick! It wasn't the first time he'd called me out because of my wild hair — sometimes I felt he was jealous because his own head was as smooth as a bowling ball.

Straightening my bandanna and trying to wrangle back some of my curls, I joined the rest of my class in waiting motionlessly as Marshall completed his inspection of our green uniforms — green for sophomores. We were the only branch school at RTHS that had to switch uniforms for certain classes. When Battle Branchies were indoors, listening to Mr. Andrews drone on about matchups or Mr. Mason about TMs and HMs, our regular navy blue slacks and white polos were fine. But if we put so much as a toe on the track or blacktop, we had to be in a set of our military-style ODUs. And despite the minimalist design, these things were apparently complicated to put on; at every inspection, Sergeant Marshall found someone's pockets inside out or a collar out of whack.

Case in point, plenty of my classmates got yelled at after my hair was chewed out — the cuffs of Veronica's sleeves were missing a fold, and Malcolm had forgotten to tuck his pants legs into his boots. Marshall stayed in front of Thomas for a full three minutes, coming dangerously close to stroking out; apparently, Ryans-Wade wasn't saying "yessir" loud enough and he was refusing to drop his smirk. I sighed inwardly; Marshall was wasting his breath. To Thomas, the Battle Branch was a means to an end, and in some ways a joke — I doubted he'd ever take the routine seriously unless he somehow wound up standing in front of a real Company Commander.