ANGEL – PSIA FIELD AGENT, CENTRAL AFRICA
Dusk painted the sky in blood-orange hues over a savannah in Central Africa. In the remains of a conflict-scarred village, Angel sat atop the crumbled wall of what used to be a schoolhouse. He absentmindedly tossed a bullet casing between his gloved hands, listening to the distant pops of gunfire still echoing from beyond the hills. Another day, another battleground that hardly seemed to change anything.
Around him, humanitarian aid workers and UN peacekeepers moved about tending to the wounded and corralling frightened villagers onto trucks for evacuation. Angel's role here was unofficial – just another "security consultant" who happened to be exactly where PSIA needed eyes and ears. His sharp gaze watched as a medic rushed by carrying a limp child. Angel's chest tightened at the sight, but his expression remained detached, almost bored behind his tousled auburn hair.
"This war's never going to end," he murmured to himself in Japanese, so softly only he could hear. He hopped off the wall, dusting off his pants. A twinge of pain shot through his left leg where a graze from earlier still bled through a bandage. It would heal; they always did. Physical injuries weren't what weighed on him.
Earlier that afternoon, he had slipped behind rebel lines to verify whispers of Pokémon-enhanced weaponry being used by mercenaries. Sure enough, he'd found evidence: the charred remains of what had once been a Houndour, genetically modified into a living incendiary bomb by some twisted science. Angel had ended its suffering, then radioed his findings to HQ with characteristic lack of urgency. It was horrifying, yes, but nothing surprised him after the betrayal that had shaken their world. Humans using Pokémon as tools of war… just another sin in a growing list.
Lighting a cigarette, Angel took a drag and exhaled toward the darkening sky. He felt unbearably tired – of the heat, of the bloodshed, of everything. If it were up to him, he might have stayed in some quiet corner of the world and let humanity sort out its own messes. But Makima had asked him to stay on, and for reasons he couldn't quite articulate, he had.
A crackle came over his portable comm device. He expected more local updates, but instead heard a familiar Japanese voice from the PSIA comms officer. "Attention all operatives. Immediate recall order issued. Drop all tasks and return to Tokyo HQ. Code name: Homecoming. Repeat, all agents, return home."
Angel blinked slowly, unsure if he'd dozed off and imagined that. He pulled the earpiece closer. The message repeated. It was real.
He let out a short, dry laugh that drew a curious glance from a passing peacekeeper. "Huh. They're pulling the plug," Angel muttered. Part of him was impressed – things must be utterly dire for HQ to cut off field intel entirely. Another part of him, the exhausted and cynical part, was simply relieved. Finally, an excuse to leave this hellish place behind.
With a sigh, Angel flicked away his half-smoked cigarette. It landed in the dirt next to a spent rifle cartridge. He tapped his comm. "Angel here," he said in a flat tone. "Acknowledged. Leaving now." He didn't even ask for details. Nothing surprised him, remember?
The response was immediate: "Safe travels, Angel. Tokyo awaits. Over and out."
Angel rolled his eyes at the cheery formality. "Tokyo awaits," he repeated under his breath, voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and longing he'd never admit. He stood there for a moment, watching the sun sink below the horizon. A burnt-orange afterglow lit the savannah and silhouetted the wreckage of an armored vehicle in the distance. It was almost poetic, in a bleak way.
He remembered Aki once telling him that if he ever got tired of it all, he should come back and they'd all share a proper meal – beer, ramen, the works. At the time, Angel had scoffed, but now the idea of sitting around a noisy table with those idiots… it didn't sound so bad. Better than this endless war, anyway.
He adjusted the rifle slung at his back and started walking toward the makeshift helipad where an extraction chopper usually came at dusk. As he passed the evacuees, a little girl with tear-streaked cheeks looked up at him. She held out something – a single white feather, dirtied at the tip. "For you, mzungu," she said in a trembling voice, mistaking him for some foreign soldier.
Angel paused. His first instinct was to wave her off – he wasn't in the mood for sentimental gestures. But something in her expectant gaze softened him. He took the feather gently. "Thank you," he replied, mustering a faint smile. The girl managed a tiny smile back before being ushered along by a relief worker.
He turned the feather between his fingers as he continued on. White, like an angel's wing – how ironic. If only she knew the code name "Angel" wasn't because of any virtue on his part.
Stuffing the feather into his vest pocket, Angel picked up his pace. The sooner he left this place, the better. A half-remembered quote surfaced in his mind – something about angels returning home at twilight. He snorted. How fitting.
A distant thump of rotors signaled the approach of the helicopter. Angel raised a hand to shield his eyes from the gust of dust as it descended. A field officer waved him over.
Climbing aboard, Angel settled into a seat and closed his eyes as the chopper took off. The cabin was quiet save for the thrum of the blades. He felt the weight of exhaustion pulling him down, but also – unexpectedly – a small flicker of relief. Maybe even hope, buried deep under layers of apathy.
He was going back. They all were. Makima, Hiroshi, Aki, the whole gang of misfits. Angel allowed himself a ghost of a smile at the thought of Aki's probable nagging about him smoking too much, or Power's inevitable boastful lies, or Denji's stupid jokes. He'd never admit it out loud, but he had missed them.
As the helicopter banked eastward, chasing the last line of dying sunlight, Angel let the weariness take over and rested his head back. If the end was coming or whatever this recall signified, at least he wouldn't face it alone.
"Home, huh," he whispered, almost wistfully, to the empty air. The feather in his pocket fluttered slightly with the vibration, as if in agreement.
Angel shut his eyes, the ghost of a smile still on his lips, and finally – finally – allowed himself to look forward to tomorrow.