[PKMN OPEN] Off The Menu [Aw, ain't you a big tickle?] [T] [OOC]

From the bleak, overcast sky, rain mercilessly beat everything below it, and blustery winds whetted their stinging lashes through the alleyways. Dragging what was once a pristine white train behind them, a lone Ralts scuttled through the sloughy gravel and occasionally tripping over a pothole indistinguishable from a shallow puddle. Bailey wore a bright yellow windbreaker, buttoned up to his chin with a horn-accommodating hood pulled over his brow. He looked straight ahead as he kept a little brown parcel to his chest, his body a buffer as the rain crashed against his back.

He remembered the Trumbeak's terse chirps in the back of his mind: Deliver this package to the residence here. This is from the Owner. I trust you only, do not lose it.

He thought, What important materials are in here? From the Owner themselves? What business prospect for the restaurant will this little tribute bring? As his small hand brushed against the ornate wax seal on the thick envelope, he thought for a moment: should the stamp ever break, had he the skill to seamlessly mend it?

Similar intrusive thoughts rolled about in his skull as he turned the corner into another gust of wind and alley, the cream-colored street sign that towered over him reading "Concorde St." On either side of him now were the chainlink-fenced backyards of row houses, small metal plates with four-digit numbers hanging off the steel top rails. Bailey kept his beady little eyes to his right, as all the even-numbered addresses ascended there. As he counted in his head, he finally came across it in the middle of the silent, empty street: 1402.

Unhooking the damp latch to the low gate and letting it swing out freely, the yellow-shrouded child walked through the yard, up the steps of the stoop, and stood at the door momentarily shielded from rain by the small canopy. Just as he lifted a hand to knock, he stopped short. Something was creeping into the back of his mind, a feeling of tension and dread felt as if its slender fingers were tracing the creases in his lobes. The horn on his head had caught the emotional signal that radiated from the other side of the door.

Just my luck that this may be a bad time, Bailey thought. He glanced out the side of his eye to see the window for 1402 Concorde St. had its blinds completely drawn. It's almost noon on a rainy day. Is this client as much of a hermit as the Owner?

Ignoring the manifesting doubt, he knocked anyway, needing to get the errand done and over with. After a minute of silence, he knocked again, and then pressed an ear to the door. Steeling himself through the initial chill of the wood, he heard some few faint voices before they silenced themselves as footsteps approached. Bailey took a step back as the door swung in, stopping just short of ajar as a chain door lock came into view and drew itself taut at the tug. From the little sliver between the door and the jamb, there stood a pudgy yellow Pokemon a couple heads taller than Bailey, squinting its eye as it balanced itself on a step stool.

There was a lapse of silence between the two, as Bailey expected at least a greet. He caved to initiative when the third second passed into social no man's land.

"Hello," he said, his voice extremely young and pitched. He lifted up the parcel in his hands so this Pokemon could see. "Are you Harold?"

At the mention of the name, the door shut in Bailey's face. He was somewhat taken aback, but when he heard the chain unlatching and the push of the stool against linoleum tile, the door swung fully open now to a Makuhita in an open floral-print bathrobe. Beyond him, Bailey could see, was a modest kitchen, whose paper-laiden table in the back corner was preoccupied with two other guests. Sitting in a chair and leering out from the edge of a darkly-lined eye was a Conkeldurr, dressed neatly in a specially-tailored three piece and tie, two heavy black suitcases at his feet. Floating beside him was a massive Dusknoir, a linen turban wrapped about the crown of his head and a glowing red eye peering ahead.

Answering Bailey's question, the Makuhita replied, "Yes." Harold asked Bailey who he was, but as soon as he did, Bailey watched as the tense-faced Guts Pokemon silently and quickly articulated a one-syllable word with his lips and tongue. Bailey was awash now with the familiar, intrusive feelings of animosity and trepidation, and though it makes itself clear to Bailey, he was not a part of the situation. He only had to dispatch a parcel.

As Bailey began to say he was delivering a package on behalf of his place of work, he didn't get halfway through his sentence when he heard the grind of a wooden chair scoot back on the floor and the glimpse of the Conkeldurr as he began to stand. Immediately, almost reflexively to the sound, the Makuhita thrust his arm out, gripping Bailey's delicate wrist in his swollen black fist, and heaved his shoulder up against the boy, knocking him out of the way. Bailey was sent flying out with a surprised cry, but soon his trajectory was yanked into a different direction, as Harold still held him by the arm and let the boy trail behind him as he thudded down the steps and out the gate.

The Ralts' needle-point pupils began to dilate as adrenaline began to pump into his system and his mind began to race. He kept the parcel clenched tight to his body as he was so powerfully lugged behind the Makuhita making a mad dash out into the street. Looking behind him, the child saw the determinedly vicious glare of the Conkeldurr, gaining ground as his muscles rippled beneath his suit and in each fist he kept his momentum with weighty suitcases. Bailey's eyes frantically glanced around the alley, and tapping into his psychokinesis, a pair of trashcans unexpectedly threw themselves into the pursuant's path. While the Conkeldurr was tripped up by the first, he slammed both of his suitcases down on the other can, completely crushing it with his awesome power, and using that leverage to propel himself into a backflip, onto his feet, and continue the chase in a fluid and unfazed motion through the rain.

Finding himself in a situation with Pokemon completely over his head, Bailey tried to have his astonished and racing mind concentrate long enough to evoke a Teleport out of sight altogether, but that was completely broken by a man's shout and what felt like a sudden gust of violent wind, sweeping him upward. As he looked up, he saw that a breathless Harold was being hoisted nearly seven feet into the air, and Bailey dangled behind him as the towering Dusknoir had them in his grasp. No time to even process the situation, the great maw on the pliable Ghost split itself open to a dimension of utter darkness, and Bailey watched as the pitch black utterly engulfed his sight.

There was a complete lack of light here. The grip on his arm vanished the second the space enclosed around him, but something else took its place, and its invisible hand was a constant pressure on his entire body. The chill of the rain was not comparable to the existential bite that seemed to disturb beyond his skin, and more his entire core. There was no sound, not even his own heavy breathing. He could not even sense what would have been his pounding heart, or his shuddering shoulders. Bailey had never experienced anything like this. He tried to call out, but to think of words put on such a sudden mental strain on him that he shut up, and felt his consciousness slipping away. This space was draining him. He began to merge with the nothingness, body and mind. An indiscernible amount of time passed, or rather, all time was lost. There soon was no memory here.

…

Dues...

Ingrate...

Tongue clicks.

A man's cry.

Scant, smothered sounds slowly slogged through the thick bog that was Bailey's waking mind as his sense returned to him. His skin began to tingle from pin pricks of warmth. His posture was hunched and his head hung low. Words began to sound nearer, recognizable. He quietly opened his eyes to see a more earthly darkness surrounded him, as he sat in a chair on the edge of a single light source. He saw his dried yellow raincoat hugging him tightly for the rope that tied around him. He lifted his head and saw beneath the sole dangling lightbulb, a massive, garishly pink monster whose sharp yellow eyes now hailed upon the boy's head.

"You're awake," was its guttural, gravelly voice. Bailey pressed his lips as he glanced over the intensely muscular physique of this strong-jawed, shark-like creature, its scythe-like arms held close to its spiny chest, over which a cravat with an interesting stone draped. The monster stood in front of a desk neatly organized with paper files. Just on the edge of the light was the familiar shape of a Conkeldurr. Bailey sensed another, massive presence nearby, but the darkness was its cover.

The boy took a deep breath as he tried to push out the thick feeling of anticipation his horn attuned to, and croaked, "If I may... what is going on?"

Once Bailey spoke, the shark creature's eyes widened, before snapping his head back to the Conkeldurr. "Is he a kid?!" His deep voice was marred with shock and a seething anger beneath. He turned around to snarl at the suited Pokemon, his finned tail whipping out over Bailey's head. "You goddamned wandought, you brought a bloody child!?"

Wearily, the Conkeldurr replied, "Got in the way. Accidental collateral."

With a shout and a lash of his tail on the ground beside Bailey, the pink two-legged dragon began to spit fierce remarks in a language the Ralts could not understand, comprising of hard tricks of throat and tongue, among other things. The henchman began to take on a hard look in defense as he tried in the same language to console or justify or excuse the case, but as this went on, Bailey took a glance over to his left. He saw Harold sitting in the only other chair, his yellow face tinged with pink and his head slacked back, shivering in a cold sweat but not responding to the events in front of him. Several feet in the air behind him was the soft glow of a partially-masked red orb, the same eye of the Dusknoir. Bailey looked back to the desk, remembering now that this all started with a parcel. It sat there amongst the papers, its red wax seal still untouched.

A haunting, bellowing voice spoke up behind him, surely coming from the Dusknoir, speaking the same foreign language to the ranting monster. At the chilling tone, the shark shut up to listen quietly. In the ensuing silence when the last few notes were left in the air to hang, all Bailey could hear were the very faint sounds of clanging, music, and shouting attempting to rise up from the floor beneath. It was that small moment of respite that Bailey needed to start collecting his thought and will, as the looming draconic beast lowered a vacant stare over the child.

The creature said something in a grave voice, and immediately the Conkeldurr beside him began to move, taking his time, his eyes intent on Bailey. The boy merely locked eyes as the henchman drew nearer, but just as the goon took a step past the desk, the zooting Pokemon stumbled forward and collapsed to his knees. The walking shark whipped his head back to his fallen crony, barking something, but before he finished whatever foreign word, it became evident on his face that he recognized the empty look in the other's eyes.

When the silent blast of stockpiled psychic energy Bailey translated into Hypnosis was successful, he didn't even give himself time to register the vicious shout and the glinting pink edge that instantly rose against him. Bailey acted in a quick succession of movement, not in calculated anticipation but in an instinctive action of flight. As soon as his busy mind had understood the target was put in a trance, he immediately mustered up a Teleport, barely escaping the tearing slash that effortlessly glided through his now unoccupied ropes. In the split second when the spatially-distorted Ralts physically emerged from the Teleport, he found himself staring yet again at the desk in the corner of his eye, though his feet began to sink into something soft. Just as quickly he vanished, just as narrowly dodging the second swing of the raging monster--this time the blade connected with the ropes and a bit of the doughy flesh of the wheezing Harold. Free of the binds, the unresponsive and feverish-looking Makuhita simply fell out of his chair with a heavy thud on the floor, sprawled.

Bailey emerged again, now in the destination he desired. With the parcel in his sights, he quickly picked it up. With all the intention to Teleport himself to some imagined point out of the room and find his way back to the restaurant with this classified package, Bailey tried to scrounge up a second of concentration to do so.

He was not given that second. Instead, it was taken from him. He suddenly found all the wind bashed out of him as a blunt force swept him from one side and almost simultaneously stopped his hurtling body as an immovable force on another. Slumping to the ground, Bailey croaked out in pain as his head began to ring and his body seized up in agony from the attack. His eyes were wide as he stared at the pink behemoth before him, stacks of paper wafting down around the creature as his tail was quick to shake them in the wake of his clean sweep of Bailey.

The small Ralts could only watch as the dragon began to approach him now, black acrid smoke breathing out between his fangs as the titanic Ghost materialized behind him. Bailey glanced around, hoping to see something of use out of his surroundings, but in the darkness his blurring vision helped him none. All he could do was will his mind to prop himself up, and as he enveloped himself in the kinesis power of Confusion to shakily lean his sore body against the wall, he finally saw the glossy papers that fell out of his lap.

The envelope of the parcel had struck the wall in such a way that the wax seal split clean and the recoil of force flung out all its contents. Scattered before him were small photographs of instant film. They were photos of red sunsets and empty beaches, but one of them caught his wavering eye: a picture of Harold in tourist shirt with a lei-laiden Makuhita beside him.

Their unmarred faces are soon slashed by the clawed toe of the neckerchief'd dragon. Bailey, lifting his unsteady gaze to the beast, sees in his dying vision that the monster's critical eye is scanning over the photos, using his toe to sift through the tropical landscapes, kicking them away, carelessly piercing the film. Behind him appears the haunt, tucked under his thick arm is the unresponsive Conkeldurr, and hanging by the wrist from his massive hand is a softly moaning Harold.

"Worthless," growled the land shark, his words laced with smog. He lifts his eyes from the summer photos and exchanged glances at the Dusknoir, before shifting his attention to the slumping Ralts. "Unnecessary," he spat. Bailey's fragile concentration wavers as he falls back to the ground, in the same state he arrived in that spot, his mind filling with the inexorable amount of animosity emanating from the creatures before him. It, combined with his physical pain, has him slipping away again.

"Bring in Roswell," spoke a voice, as Bailey's eyes now fell shut. "Wipe the kid. We'll deal with th-is … -iss-yellow… tallow ke-tch... la-... ter… -er..."

Words and sounds began to stretch and distort in the little time it took Bailey to black out.

At some point, the colors red, yellow, and green could be recalled, a softly glowing memory quickly forgotten.

…

On a bench swing nestled away in the greenery beside Finer Things, a Ralts in a yellow raincoat sleeps unperturbed amidst the beautiful, native array of the garden. As the sun sets, the fresh ink on a note that lays open in his hand glistens. It reads in shaky strokes: