KISHIBE – PSIA FIELD AGENT, MIDDLE EAST
A dusty tavern on the outskirts of a Middle Eastern border town thrummed with low voices and the smell of strong liquor. Kishibe sat at a corner table under a bare flickering bulb, rolling a half-empty glass of whiskey in his scarred hand. The lamplight drew harsh lines across his weathered face and the constellation of old scars along his jaw. Around him, a motley assortment of mercenaries and smugglers laughed raucously over a dice game, oblivious to the Japanese man in their midst. Kishibe preferred it that way – invisible until he chose to be noticed.
Across from him slouched an informant – a wiry man with darting eyes who had spent the last hour spilling secrets. A cigarette dangled from Kishibe's lips as he listened to the man's hushed report. "Heard through the grapevine," the informant murmured in Arabic, "that some big fish from Japan are paying top dollar for discrete shipments. Weapons, vehicles… even biological storage units. They're stockpiling somewhere in the desert." He tapped nervously on the table. "Word is, they've got friends in high places protecting the convoys."
Kishibe's dark eyes narrowed slightly. So the traitors were arming up and covering their tracks out here. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling a curl of smoke. "Names," he said simply, voice gravelly but quiet. The informant gulped from his own glass. "No names. Just a codename – 'Jackal'. He's brokering the deals. If I sniff out more—"
Kishibe slid a few folded bills across the table. "You will," he said, cutting the man off. "And when you do, you know how to reach me." The informant pocketed the cash with a quick nod and made himself scarce.
Left alone, Kishibe threw back the rest of his whiskey in one smooth motion. It burned nicely down his throat. Outside, a burst of distant gunfire rattled the night – just another reminder of how precarious the region was. Kishibe glanced toward the door, contemplating his next move. He'd been tracing shadowy supply lines for weeks, hoping to uncover where the ex-PSIA traitors might surface. The stolen Pokémon tech, the research – it all tied into bigger power plays here. Yet, he felt on the cusp of something.
He reached into his coat for a battered flask to top up his glass when a petite barmaid approached with a flirtatious smile. Before she could offer another drink, Kishibe's satellite phone buzzed against the table, its vibration rattling the empty glass. He held up a finger to the barmaid, who pouted but moved on.
Kishibe flipped open the phone, the screen's glow revealing a secure message header. Even before reading it, he had a hunch – a sudden tingling sense that this was it. He scanned the message, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise.
PRIORITY ONE – FULL RECALL: All agents report back to Tokyo HQ immediately. Acknowledge and proceed exfil.
For a long moment, Kishibe just stared at the words. The din of the tavern receded as a focused calm settled over him. So Makima had finally pulled the trigger on a full recall. He hadn't seen one in all his years – not even when things were dire. His lone eye (the other hidden under an old eyepatch from a far-gone injury) flicked to the date and timestamp. It was real and it was now.
Kishibe huffed a quiet breath that might've been a laugh. A couple of younger mercenaries at the dice game glanced his way, noticing his amused smirk. Ignoring their looks, Kishibe tapped out a confirmation on the phone: "Acknowledged – Kishibe. En route."
He took one last slow look around the seedy bar. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, barely cutting the stale heat. In the corner, the dice players erupted into cheers at a lucky roll. It struck Kishibe how normal it all felt, despite the earth-shaking implication of the recall order. The world goes on, he mused, even as theirs was about to change.
He stood, tossing a few local coins on the table for the whiskey. As he slid on his worn leather jacket, the barmaid sidled over, disappointment in her eyes. "Leaving so soon?" she purred. Kishibe gave her a polite, tired half-smile. "Duty calls," he replied in clumsy Arabic, voice low and apologetic. She seemed to understand, her gaze lingering on the long scar across his cheek as he turned to go.
Stepping out into the warm midnight air, Kishibe tilted his head up. The night sky here was vast and unapologetically clear – a spray of stars over the dark outline of distant dunes. He took a moment to savor the quiet, lighting another cigarette with a practiced flick of his lighter. The tip glowed orange as he inhaled, thinking of Tokyo.
He imagined Makima at HQ, making the same call to all their scattered operatives, and Hiroshi Kobayashi – the kid prodigy he'd only met once, years ago – finally back in the fold. If those two were joining forces now, then the storm was truly at hand. Kishibe cracked his neck and exhaled smoke. A faint grin tugged at his lips.
He recalled training two particular rookies not long ago – a loudmouthed red-haired girl and a scrappy blonde punk – Denji and Power. What a handful they'd been, raising hell and calling it "training." Kishibe chuckled under his breath at the memory of their antics in Tokyo's abandoned warehouses. They were rough around the edges, but they had guts. His brats. No doubt they'd be in the thick of whatever was coming. He wondered if they'd managed to stay alive this long without him babysitting.
With a final glance at the far horizon, Kishibe turned on his heel and walked toward the shadows where his motorbike was hidden. The informant's intel would have to wait. If Makima wanted everyone home, the intel web was being cast aside in favor of a more direct battle. And honestly, that suited him just fine. Kishibe had always been a man of action when push came to shove.
He swung onto his motorcycle, the engine growling to life. Pulling his bandana up over his mouth to guard against the dust, he revved the throttle. "Alright then… back to the wolves' den," he muttered to himself.
A moment later, Kishibe sped off into the night, a trail of sand kicked up in his wake. The phone's recall message burned in his mind. This was the endgame calling. And while he'd never admit it aloud, a spark of anticipation ignited in his blood.
Tokyo – and the final showdown – awaited, and Kishibe would be there with a sharpened blade, a loaded gun, and perhaps a much-needed drink in hand.