Chapter Two: Tiny Knife
Chapter Two: Tiny Knife
Freedom. Two weeks of it.
The hike across Route 616 was what Bevan was most looking forward to. He knew the end was grueling obedience – the instructors couldn't truly harm him, due to his father, but they could certainly make his life miserable.
The journey started tamely, like most other routes: patches of emerald grass and a convenient, well-trodden track. But it got nasty very quickly, with hostile Pokémon and rugged terrains. Most kids "phoned out" (that was, called the helicopter service to take them back home, at their parents' expense) around the halfway mark. Bevan knew he couldn't do that. He could never admit defeat to his father.
It wasn't long until a small, dark hyena popped out of the bushes, staring at Bevan. A few of the other people around him looked, and then looked away, not wanting to waste their time with small and weak Pokémon. To them this wasn't a merciful window of freedom – it was a race.
On the other hand, Bevan wanted to see what his could do.
Come to think of it, I haven't ever released you from your Pokéball.
"Larvitar, go!"
Now,
this command turned some heads. Half the heads that turned were ones curious to see what a "Larvitar" was. The other half knew, and were deeply impressed at this trainer's acquisition. Most people never recognised him, as in the few media appearances which he'd made, he faded into the background.
As soon as the young Larvitar had emerged from his ball, the Poochyena charged at it, teeth bared.
"Larvitar, Iron Defense!" This Larvitar was special, even for something so rare. A genetically superior Tyranitar had been bred with an equally superior Aggron – the result, a lethal Pokémon that knew moves that the average Larvitar wouldn't.
Larvitar held its arms crossed to its chest, its body hardening, its skin transforming into some kind of organic metal. The Poochyena closed its mouth, not wanting to sink its teeth into something so hard, but ended up banging its jaw into the little green dinosaur.
"Bite!"
With its new, hardened teeth, Larvitar opened its jaw. The Poochyena tried to flee, but Larvitar grabbed one of its hind legs, knocking it off balance and causing the Poochyena to yelp in pain.
"Ram it!"
Larvitar leapt into the air, not feeling any increase in body weight due to its metal. Poochyena, on the other hand, felt its full force, falling to the ground unconscious. Bevan reached for his Pokéball, and then remembered what his father had told him:
"No matter what kind of trainer you are, a Pokémon will never obey you if you catch it after knocking it unconscious. It will still view you as its adversary, and will often attack the trainer." A rare piece of advice, kept securely in the back of his mind.
Bevan smirked shyly, at this point realising that quite a crowd had developed behind him, their eyes transfixed on his rare Pokémon. Well,
almost all of their eyes. With the battle over, the crowd mainly dispersed, each of them realising they had some place to be.
A girl about Bevan's age approached him. Her hair was a fiery red, her eyes a glowing azure. She was about a foot shorter than Bevan, and smiled.
"Hello," she said pleasantly. On the surface level, anyway – but Bevan couldn't help but detect a hint of –
pity?
"H-hello…" Bevan said, wondering why someone would want to pay attention to him. In the last five years, the only person he had held a conversation with was his father.
"Isn't it funny how the son of our most prominent Oligarch lacks so much prominence himself? Even with their eyes on your battle, not a single one recognised you." She smiled.
"Well, actually, I'm kind of glad about that. I don't really like lots of attention."
The girl smiled. "I got that. I saw you in the crowd of reporters yesterday."
"Maybe it's just that The Voice's pomposity is so loud, it drowns me out," Bevan said thoughtfully, more to himself than to her.
The Voice was the position that his father had on the Oligarchy. He was essentially the head of propaganda: he ran schools, state television and newspapers, regulated the "opinion industry", et cetera. For this reason, he was the only Oligarch that was not reclusive and secretive. Bevan had always thought quietly to himself that
Devil's Advocate would be a more accurate title.
He noticed the girl staring at him, and realised he didn't even know her name. "Charlotte," she said, when he asked. "Nice to meet you."
Charlotte, at seventeen years of age, was on the same quest that Bevan was. She was drawn to Bevan not due to his battling style, nor his rare Pokémon, but because she sensed that he had an unwilling attachment to a ruthless Oligarch. Secretly, she hated her rulers, but had the good sense to shut up about it. As for why she was becoming a Cloak – there was no other option.
Bevan, on the other hand, was not only awkward, but suspicious. He was highly analytical, and having his father as a model for how a person is, tended to distrust people. And here was this girl, treating him nicely for no apparent reason.
What did she want?
Charlotte gestured forward, a smile on her face. "Shall we walk? We don't want to lose out."
"Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?" Bevan was trying to get a backstory, to see whether she could be trusted.
"I didn't come from anywhere as privileged as you," she sighed, looking ahead. "My parents and I were in a cult."
"A
what?"
She smiled a sad smile, and then quickly removed it from herself.
Not in front of him, she reminded herself. "Haven't you heard what a cult is before?"
There was something suspicious in her voice – maybe it was something he was supposed to know? "N-no, I don't. It's just, I've been homeschooled for the last five years. I haven't really left the house much."
"Homeschooling?" Charlotte replied with an eyebrow raised. "Isn't that illeg – oh.." The ban on homeschooling was enforced by those under Evan's charge. He was hardly going to order himself arrested. "The outside world is… ugly…"
"How do you mean?"
Charlotte stopped, turning seriously to Bevan. "People get dragged out of their homes at night. Sometimes they show up, and you have to act like nothing ever happened. But most of the time they don't. There are cults – fringe religious groups – around the region. Rogue scientists experiment with gene splicing. Pollution is rampant. People are impoverished. The military struts around the streets, and the secret police tap into every aspect of your life."
Bevan narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "People – can come back? After they've been taken?"
"It doesn't happen often. When they come back – they're completely different. They'll show up like they've just returned from work, and you need to play along."
"So, these cults – how come the government doesn't crack down on them?"
Charlotte bit her lip, and motioned to continue walking. "Most of the cults are secretly run by your father's department. They don't make it official, but they realise the power of having something to believe in. The Oligarchy is scared of a unified, above-ground religion, in case it becomes independent. So, instead they form tightly-knit cults around the country, with varying themes. But their message is the same:
obedience to the Oligarchy."
Bevan was horrified, but remembered what his father was capable of.
Maybe his cruelty wasn't personal, he thought.
Maybe that's just how he is. That thought didn't make him feel any better.
"How did you get out?"
"Ran away," Charlotte said simply. Although Bevan wasn't all that familiar with social etiquette, even he could tell that she didn't want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.
Charlotte looked up, and smiled in Bevan's direction. He felt it strangely comforting – true compassion. An emotion which he had not experienced for a long time.
"We're here," she noted, a tinge of regret in her voice. Ahead of them, countless trees of gargantuan proportions towered over them. It was a sharp change from the peacefulness and security of the open road. Route 616 had just got interesting.
Evan stood firm against the masses and the press, all of them eager to hear his comments. The flash of cameras and the waving of microphones against his stand would have been intimidating to most, but not this man. Not
The Voice of the People. Not the celebrity of the Oligarchy.
He raised his hand, and the crowd fell silent. After thirty seconds of silence had passed, he began speaking. "Fellow Torcrans, we have, as you know, been experiencing terrorist attacks. Three days ago, the Cronine Hotel was bombed with an Electrode by a man who goes by the name
Dagger. He appears to have a few accomplices, all of whom dress in black.
"Allow me to make this quite clear. This man is a coward. He cravenly buries his shrouds his body in darkness, and his alias seems to be that of a small, archaic weapon. In the process, this criminal has wounded and killed several brave men and women, all of whom work to keep our society safe.
"My brethren: how dare he? His attacks are attacks against society! Against us! Shall we allow this medieval weapon to get the better of us?" He outstretched his arms, silently imploring them to answer him.
One man let out a shout. "No!"
A fanatic woman quickly followed. "No!"
The crowd joined in, yelling, "No! No! No!"
Evan raised a hand, and they fell silent. Leaning forward, he continued his speech. "Then, the people have spoken. The people have taken a harsh stance against this radical murderer." He outstretched an arm, and spoke upwards. "Let it be known,
Dagger, that the will of Torcra is against you. You shall be brought to justice!"
And with that, the crowd applauded, screeching fanatically at their savior. They were safe from this terrorist:
The Voice had assured them so. Despite his passionate speech, Evan was not so sure. Recently, his men had discovered that one of his guard had been overpowered at Teartas. A card was found in the pocket of his cloak.
It read
"Dagger".
