I've finally got the courage to stop lurking around. ^_^ Hopefully, this fic isn't too awful. It's old and iffy in some parts, but I've always been kinda fond of the poor thing and didn't want it deleted into oblivion. Anyway, read/wince/shove it in the corner at your leisure.
Summary: Its ridiculous, right? Everyone knows that Pokmon cant become trainers. With the help of a struggling language researcher, a wild Pokmon runt aims to break all the rules and lead a team of rejects to glory.
Rating: PG
***
Blue Eyes' Warriors
Chapter 1 - Pummelo
***
That one never had a chance.
Lugging a bulky plastic bag behind them, the two men grunted as they heaved their load into the waiting dumpster. The burlier of the two shook a bead of sweat from his forehead and wiped his grungy hands across his jeans. Its no use, he called to his young companion. That Pokmons deader than a decapitated doornail. You heard the orders gotta toss the body before it starts stinkin up the lab.
The other was silent as he lifted a second, considerably lighter garbage bag. With a deft toss, it fell on top of the first. Grey eyes carefully emotionless, the young man crossed his arms over his stained lab coat and watched his friend give both bags a perfunctory shove. The thud of the dumpsters closing cover resonated in the alley.
Ill never understand why they agreed to take such a weak Pokmon, the older man grumbled. Never was a chance for that one, no sir. He laughed harshly, shaking his shaggy head and starting back the way hed come. Couldve told em that from the start, but they wouldntve listened. Toadies and boot-lickers, every stuck-up one of em. The young master wont be pleased, I can tell ya that.
Arms still crossed, the grey-eyed man did not move. Ignoring the strands of brown hair falling into his face, as well as the overpowering stench of week-old garbage, he waited until the other man had disappeared around the corner before walking deliberately up the dumpster.
Well, I guess this is it, little buddy, the young man said, a bitter smile twisting his face. I warned you not to expect a proper burial, but thisyouve got to agree this is going a bit far.
He laughed nervously, then quickly grew solemn. What you couldve become, if youd actually lived, thatll always haunt me, he said finally, bowing his head. But not even having the strength to survive; maybemaybe you wouldve been even more worthless than any Pokmon of your kind. But no one will know now, will they, little buddy?
A choking lump formed in his throat as he forced himself on. Well always be left to wonder, wont we? Wonder what you
A loud call rang through the air, breaking through the faltering words. Yo, Sammy! You comin or what?
Taking great care not to trip over the edge of his wrinkled lab coat, the young man took off at a brisk trot, the unformed words left hanging in the putrid air.
Underneath the dumpster lid, buried underneath layers of black plastic, the slow, subtle beating of a tiny heart quickened into a nervous pound. But the danger was over, for now, at least. Slowly, the rapid hammering slowed into a relaxed, easy beat.
And a black-tipped ear gave a single twitch in the darkness.
***
The Pummelo Waste Disposal service arrived early the next morning, prompt as always. Yawning sleepily at the rosy dawn sky, the driver backed the garbage truck into the alleyway before signaling a pair of coworkers in the back.
One of the workers cried out as a scrawny Raticate shot out from behind the dumpster, barely missing his leg as it dashed down the alley. His companion shook her head, smirking. Vermin, she pronounced coolly. Theyre everywhere nowadays.
The citys got more wild Pokmon than the forests, the other scowled irritably. Not that those good-for-nothing trainers ever bother to come here. All the kids today care about are those so-called Gyms on the mainland. Second they become Pokmon trainers, theyre off to Kanto or Johto. Dont take a backwards glance at the Orange Islands, much less return to support their ailing parents.
Good thing, his coworker said dryly, or wed be working even longer.
The contents of the dumpster thudded into the truck in a smelly cascade of bags and loose debris. Rumbling noisily, the old garbage truck started back down the street, rattling a bit over the numerous potholes in the road.
At every bump, a certain plastic bag gave a small, spastic shudder.
Shrill, screaming Wingull filled the malodorous skies above Pummelo Bay. Still more covered the shoreline, gleaning choice pickings from floating mountains of rotting food. In a burst of white and blue, several scattered as the garbage truck clanked towards the water. Others, however, flapped their wings and squawked indignantly at having their meal interrupted.
As soon as the truck emptied its load into the bay and drove off, a huge flock of seabirds converged upon the new bags, tearing at the plastic with their beaks and beating their wings fiercely at any other Pokmon that ventured too close.
One sharp-eyed Wingull caught sight of a bag that the others had overlooked, one half-buried underneath a mound of old test-tubes and binders. Chortling craftily to itself, the Pokmon hopped forward, darting a cautious look about, before yanking the bobbing garbage bag out of the water and pecking it apart.
From within the folds of plastic, the eager Wingull caught glimpses of matted yellow fur. Two long ears followed, both looking as if their tips had been dipped in glossy black ink. Last of all came the round face and blood-red cheeks, small and still against the expanse of the black bag.
The Wingull cocked its head skeptically at its discovery, noting the creatures tiny, scrawny body with distaste. Prodding at the tip of the zigzag tail that protruded from the other end of the bag, the bird Pokmon threw away its momentary qualms and bent in. Food was food, and the Wingull was hungy.
As the bird moved in, the creatures eyelids twitched, as if struggling to open. Letting out a piercing scream as its meals body began to shudder, the shocked Wingull rocketed into the sky, wheeling crazily past several others and disappearing from sight.
On the ground below, the other members of the flock looked about, curious to see what had startled their fellow Pokmon. All pairs of beady black eyes were on the yellow-furred creature as it staggered onto its four paws, tiny limbs wobbling unsteadily. Finding balance at last, the creature crawled forward through the folds of the bag that surrounded it. It collapsed moments later, body sliding across the slick plastic and falling on top of an discarded, floating Frisbee.
A raucous cawing swelled up from the assembled Wingull. Feathers flying, two or three landed inches away from the dirty plastic disk, cocking their heads curiously at the small body. Once more, the muscles in the creatures eyelids twitched. Its long ears perked up from its petite back as the Wingull began to jeer and poke with their beaks.
Slowly, deliberately, the tiny creature turned its face towards the Wingull and opened its eyes.
The cries of the bird Pokmon echoed through the skies of the Pummelo Bay, sending the majority of the flock fluttering into the air and speeding away on their ivory white wings.
A light breeze sprung up moments later, rocking both the Frisbee and its light occupant. With only this gentle push, the old piece of plastic started moving across the bay, bobbing as it went. Curling its body into a tight ball, the yellow-furred creature turned its large, almond-shaped eyes towards the cloudless sky.a sky that was as a dazzling clear blue as the creatures own unblinking gaze.
The Frisbee kept on moving, drifting past the voluminous mounds of garbage and into the open ocean, carrying its diminutive passenger along with it.
***
As she trotted down the sandy shoreline, skimming the ground so quickly that not a single pawprint marked the wet sand, Blackberry the Raichu raised her head into the air and took a deep sniff. Salty sea air filled her nostrils in a brisk wave, making her wrinkle her button-black nose.
Today, though, there was something different woven in beneath the sharp scent of the ocean. Twitching her curved brown ears alertly, the Raichu crept towards the edge of the island and waded paw-deep into the tidewaters. The cold waves slapped at her sides as she went, drenching her orange fur and stinging her eyes.
As Blackberry looked about, debating whether or not to venture further offshore, a bright piece of plastic caught her eye. A disk was bobbing up and in the shallow water, only several feet away. Huddled atop that flimsy piece of plastic was a sodden, unmoving shape, its yellow fur matted stiff with salty water.
Blackberry caught her breath with dismay, hoping that one of her wild Pikachu pack mates had not been injured. But as the Raichu paddled towards the floating plastic, she already knew that this was not one of the Pokmon she lived with and watched over. She would have recognized one of her fellow pack members by scent. This Pikachu, however, was completely unknown to her.
As Blackberry came upon the strange new Pokmon, she saw for the first time how small it really was. No taller, nor broader, than the Raichus front forelimb, it could have easily been held in Blackberrys cupped paws. Tentatively, she extended her neck, clasped the Pikachus limp body in her teeth, and carried it back to shore.
An anxious cry greeted Blackberry as she set paw back on the sand. Setting the Pikachus body carefully down, and shaking out her soaked fur, Blackberry spotted a young Pichu racing towards her on all fours.
Big Bolt Blackberry! the Pichu shouted, skidding to a stop before the Chu pack leader.
Big Bolt, Zaps been shovin some of the baby Chu into the bramble bushes again! Im not tryin to tattle, Chaser told me not to tattlebut The Pichu broke off sheepishly, its pink cheeks flushing a bright red.
Whos that? it said curiously as its gaze fell on the Pikachu Blackberry had just found.
Big Bolt, what happened to tha Pikachu? Is italive?
Placing a gentle paw onto the Pikachus body, Blackberry could just detect the subtle rise and fall of its scrawny chest.
The Pikachus fine, Sycamore, she told the anxious Pichu with a surprised laugh. Try as she might, Blackberry could not imagine how the small Pikachu had managed to arrive at the wild, remote island alive. Had it floated across the entire ocean, for days and days?
Gently, Blackberry bent forward and licked the crusty salt from the tiny Pokmons face. The Pikachu did not open its eyes, but its mouth gave a small twitch. Blackberry watched silently as the Pikachu let out a spluttering cough, choking up sea water and spittle.
We need to take our new friend here down to the sunning stumps, to dry off, Blackberry said as the Pikachus spit ran down her fur.
Then you should take me to see Zap, Sycamore. I have a feeling that my little brother needs another talking-to about respect in the pack.
Sycamore nodded vigorously in agreement, before its round face lengthened into a worried frown.
But, Blacky, the Pichu said, eyeing the strange Pikachu in Blackberrys arms.
That Chus not from our pack, is it?
No, Sycamore. I guess its not. How it reached our island, Im really not sure.
But you dont think that The Pichus bright black eyes had grown very wide, and it ducked its head sheepishly as it went on.
Blacky, you dont think that the Pikachu came here witha Trainer? Do you?
The Raichu shook her head and rested her long tail on Sycamores shoulder.
I smelled no Trainers, she said firmly, pushing the Pichus chin up so that its face met her own.
Many Chu, I know, worry about Trainers in our forest. But none of us would ever stand by and let a Trainer Capture a fellow Chu. Were a pack, Sycamore. Not one of us would ever let another come to harm, not one Blackberrys face darkened as she recalled an image of her brother Zap, shoving a baby Pichu off a log and laughing. Well, Zap would be dealt with soon enough.
With Sycamore at her side, Blackberry started away from sands of the beach and into the darkness of the forest, cradling the small, sleeping Pikachu in her paws.
***
Notes: (slaps hand to forehead) Gah, I should be beaten for my portrayal of wild Pokmon. Though I like the ring of "pack," it's an iffy word. Pikachu seem more like mice or rabbits; perhaps they should have "warrens" or "nests"?
Anyway, italicized dialogue, as you can probably see, is translated Pokmon speech. Also, many of the Pokmon characters will tend to capitalize certain words, such as "trainer" or "captured," to emphasize a particular meaning.
Continuity-wise, this is probably about 30 years before Ash and co. The Orange League is not yet in existence. (shuffles out)